Admittedly, I never really knew what happened between Paris and Mason. Only that, for a while, he would show up to every one of her ballet showcases and bring the same white flowers.
He started turning up less and less after that, until he stopped coming altogether.
After his death, Paris never mentioned him again, and I never asked. In fact, the topic of him only seemed to deeply unsettle her.
I kept my distance from that part of her. Whether out of instinct or indifference, I couldn’t say.
I reach out gently and brush my fingers against the side of her hair. Not her skin, just the edge of the silver clip she’s wearing. It’s loose, slightly tilted.
She freezes. Doesn’t move. Just stands there and lets me fix it.
“There,” I murmur. “That’s better.”
Paris blinks at me, visibly thrown. She lifts a hand halfway, like she’s about to adjust it herself, then lowers it again.
“I didn’t—I didn’t realize i-it was… off.”
I let a smile ghost my face. “You look nice today. The clip suits you.”
She fumbles with her bag strap. “That’s no—that’s n-not what we’re talking about.”
“But it could be,” I reply, still watching her.
Paris narrows her eyes. “You’re deflecting.”
I raise a brow. “Am I?”
“Yes,” she says. “You always do this.”
“That’s a very cynical take, Paris,” I muse, shifting my weight a little against the locker. “Almost sounds like you’re accusing me of something.”
I glance at the silver clip again, then at her eyes. “It really was crooked.”
Paris lets out a long, quiet sigh. “Y-you’re not taking this seriously,” she says.
I exhale, only mildly amused. “If I took everything seriously,” I murmur, “I’d need a therapist and a priest.”
That gets the faintest flicker of a smile from her, which she immediately tries to smother.
I tilt my head slightly. “Where are your outstandingly insufferable friends today? Why are you on your own again?”
Paris shifts, adjusting the strap of her bag again. “They’re n-not really… my friends. I don’t really have any.”
“Oh yeah?” I glance over at her. “What do you call me, then?”
She frowns like she wasn’t expecting the question and looks at me with a bewildered look on her face. “You’re… different.”
I hum at that. “Different,” I repeat, letting the word roll off my tongue as I glance at her curiously. “Does that mean I’m yourbestfriend?”
“You’re myonlyfriend,” Paris says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Only?” I murmur, leaning closer to her. “Now that’s a dangerous amount of power to give one person.”
Kym
I stand at the counter, stirring the pot of spaghetti bolognese and watching as the water bubbles. I take in the scent of tomatoes and simmering herbs, wondering what I used to like so much about it. It makes me sick now. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that I always make it for Pete and Annie, or that it’s Pete’s favourite. Annie’s too, or at least that’s what she always says.
I know she’s just saying what Pete wants to hear.
