Flick nods. "Look, Max is loads of fun. I like him. You're just headed for better things... You throw yourself into everything you love. I just don’t want you to throw yourself into him. You just don’t understand. You're my hero! You wanted to be a ballerina and you made that happen. I just don’t want you to lose yourself in Max Butcher. He has the kind of identity that people get swept up in, losing all sense of self. The girl who ends up with him will need to fit into his box. He won’t change for her. You two are just not compatible. He will never deserve someone like you. You don’t need a Max to be someone. You're someone on your own."
"I hear everything you're saying. I do. I appreciate the sentiment. But Stacey is right. Max is very guarded with his personal life. He's very protective of his privacy. I don't even feel comfortable talking about us. It's ours. He makes me feellike this thing is just ours. I like it that way. You should just?—"
Her mouth opens. “Is that what this is about? Protection?”
I squint at her, finding her revelation expression annoying. "What?”
“This is about Konnor. You were so young and he was so broken. You two were inseparable. We always thought he was looking after you, but sometimes I felt like you were the one looking after him. After everything that happened to him at such a young age, it makes me think about how those things might have affected you. You want someone who can look after you. You like Max so much because you want someone who can protect you.”
I fumble around for words. “This is such a bizarre path you've taken! This has nothing to do with Konnor. I like Max because he's gorgeous and for all the other reasons I've already mentioned. This is about Max. Max and me. And it just doesn’t have anything to do with you or anyone else.”
My phone vibrates in my bag as the alarm goes off. Ignoring Flick's concerned face, I open the door to my room and shut it behind me.
My room for one night only.
I sit down on the edge of the mattress and pull out my phone. Blinking at the display, I read the notification: It's time forPlan B.
Muzzles and Straitjackets
I liketo wake up before the sun. I like to start my day before everyone else. The atmosphere is thick and dark as I jog outside. Glancing at the daybed, I see a white sheet and pillow. It seems that either Flick or Stacey slept there. I hate that they are fighting. Shaking my head, I clear my mind and begin my morning run.
I jog. I shower. I pack my bag. Then I join Stacey and Flick in walking up the stone steps in silence. They have sad eyes and tight smiles as we reach the resort's breakfast buffet. We eat in near silence. It's torture. I stare at my sister wide-eyed before darting my gaze to Stacey. Flick shakes her head as she peers down at the omelette she's shuffling around her plate. After giving up on the pretence of eating, we head back to see the boys.
Despite the mood that has settled around us, I can't help but be excited about seeing Max. I picture his face, brooding and conflicted, as is his default expression.
As we push open the door to the villa, empty bottles roll across the tiles. I glance at the girls, who look as concernedas me. My stomach knots as we walk in without hearing a word. It's nine a.m., so the boys are probably still passed out in bed. The villa smells like smoke and sex and vomit. After stepping over the smashed glass, crumbled up packets of crisps, and condom wrappers without so much as a wrinkle of my nose, I finally cringe at the blood splatter!
Stacey grabs my arm. "We should come back later."
I yank my elbow from her. "No way."
"Cassidy." Flick touches my hip. "Let's go outside. Go for a swim and wait for them to wake up. We aren’t cleaning up this mess."
I ignore her. I have no right to do what I want to do, but I do it anyway. Making my way to Max's door, I push it open a few inches and peer inside.
My heart doesn't sink.
It plummets.
Max isn't alone. He's flopped over the mattress with one arm draped across his forehead and his legs spread, still in his jeans. His inked chest rises and falls with each deep, sleepy, relaxed breath.
She, a Scarlett Johansson lookalike, has her naked, shapely body wrapped around his leg. Her full breasts press into his side. I hate her. I hate Scarlett Johansson by association. As I stare at them, I experience a sharp stab in my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that this scene doesn't haunt the rest of our relationship... ourfriendship.
When I open my eyes again, it's to the same scene, but this time I'm locked on the open top button of his jeans. So that sweet, pleasured look on his face right now is because of her—for her. I'd thought it was all mine. It isn’t. And it never was. Every girl who gives him pleasure is graced with this version of him. But they probably aren’t dumb enough tobelieve they are special. That they share something special with him.Our thing. There is nothing. I was wrong.
I should have known. It's not like he didn't warn me enough. Shame feels a lot like hunger—it's twisting my insides, begging for the antidote, but unlike hunger, food can't cure this feeling. Forcing a whimper down, I softly close the door and walk outside into the forest.
There is a little bench towards the bottom of the valley. I can hear water trickling, but I can't see it. Tears rush from my eyes as I stare at my bronze sandals. They shuffle grey dirt around. I lick tears from my lips, consciously trying to channel nothingness.
"Cassidy?" I hear Flick’s voice calling through the foliage.
I wipe my mouth with my wrist. "I'm over here."
Stopping in front of the pathetic display that is me, she sighs. "That was a dick move."
I shrug and hug my knees. "I don’t want to be upset. So I won’t be."
"Sometimes it's good to cry, to get it out of your system."
