“Do you always talk this much?” He looked me over again. This time, he let his eyes linger on the deep cut of my dress and the way my nipples peaked below the surface. I still wasn’t sure how, in a house full of women, not one person had breast tape. “What are you wearing?” His voice seemed to have dropped an octave. It was low. Hoarse. Gravelly almost. But something about it seemed to curl around me, sending a shiver up my spine; my skin breaking out in goose bumps.
“Well, I’ve been telling people I am a demon bride or something.” He seemed to tense at my words, clearly unimpressed bymy poorly executed costume. His eyes darkened, the reds of his contacts shifting several shades darker in the dim overhead light. “Like demons? Underworld? Hell? Where your soul goes to be tormented?”
He scoffed, the sound coming out so cold. “In the bed chamber, perhaps. But a demon’s bride is for him and him alone. Not to be seen by the outside world.”
“Are you saying my dress is too revealing?” His nostrils flared before settling me with a look that sent another jolt of heat straight through my core. I clamped my legs together, but the motion didn’t go unnoticed by him.
“Yes.”
Okay, you old-fashioned asshole.God, why had every interaction I’d had with a person gone so terribly? I needed to stage an intervention or book an appointment with the doctor to figure out what was going so wrong. Maybe they could diagnose me with the problem. Although now that I thought about it, the last thing I wanted to know was that I suffered from something terminal and incurable likeLoseritis.
“Okay, buddy, I think it’s time for you to go. And for the record, it’s the twenty-first century and women can wear whatever the hell they want,” I snapped, slamming down my pizza and closing the gap between us so I could direct him back toward the main entrance.
He tensed, taking a step backward and sneering down at me as if having me in his space made him physically uncomfortable.Well, guess what, pal? The feeling’s mutual.I shrugged off the lingering sense of rejection and motioned toward the door.
In my presence, he seemed to experience every negative emotion it was possible to feel all at once. Annoyance. Pain. Irritation. Disdain. He didn’t like me, well, that wasn’t anything I wasn’t used to.
“I cannot go until I’ve done what I need to do.”
“Well, that sounds weirdly ominous…and a lot like your fucking problem.” I started pushing him toward the door, ignoring that he was likely over a foot taller than me and the electric jolt I felt shoot through my arm the moment our skin touched. In light of everything that was going on in the surrounding towns and how weird he was acting, it was probably more than a little bold of me to assume this man was just drunk. The infamous names of Halloween’s most terrifying antagonists flashed in my mind. Somewhere between Michael Myers and Norman Bates, you’d find this guy.
“Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me.”
Shit, okay, shit…
“Sorry, oh god, sorry,” I took a steadying breath, looking anywhere but up at him. “I’m, uh… I am going to go to bed. I’m sure whoever texted you will be back shortly.” I made an attempt to walk away from him before turning back, a violent heat erupting on my cheeks as he looked down at me. “Sorry about pushing you… Please make sure whoever it is you were meant to hang out with isn’t too drunk to do whatever it is you had planned…”
Yep, A-star for me on the adulting front.
And then, without glancing back, I high-tailed it down the hall, leaving him standing by the entrance. I could feel his eyes on me, burning at the back of my neck. As I turned up the stairs, I chanced one final glance at the guy with the fiery red hair to see if he was still watching. But he was gone.
Fucking frat boys.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning, once Isaac had reluctantly stalked off to lacrosse training, I crept downstairs and crawled into bed with Esme, two coffees and a bag of gummy worms I found in the cupboard in tow (the pinnacle of a nutritional breakfast). When I’d first gotten into running, I’d tried to keep track of my macros because that was what you were supposed to do. But after a week and a half, I’d had to face the stark reality that my diet mostly consisted of cereal, instant ramen, and the same brand of gummy worms held between my teeth.
I slid underneath the covers and huddled up to my friend, who looked up at me with wide, grateful eyes as I handed her a coffee. Esme’s room was well-sized with a stunning velvet-framed bed, one that was covered in more blankets and pillows than necessary. She had also amassed a small collection of soft, stuffed animals that had been circulating on social media. (If there was ever another worldwide flood, we wouldn’t need a guy called Noah, just Esme and her bed).
She had a small vintage white vanity in the corner of herroom, which she justified buying by saying it would double as a desk. But by the sheer volume of beauty products now stacked up on it, it was a wonder she managed to ace any of her classes at all.
“Do I even bother asking how you’re feeling?” I said, taking a sip of my coffee. Esme had already placed her mug down and slipped under the covers because the light filtering through her dainty curtains was making it feel likesomeone had shoved her head in a blender.
I could just about make out her muffled complaints from where she was hiding, before patting the lump I assumed was her body and grabbing the remote. I turned on the TV which was mounted on the other side of the room and started flicking through all the old movies.Thank god for streaming platforms and their digitally remastered copies of my favourite films.
“What are you putting on?” a muffled squeak echoed out from below the duvet before blonde, wispy stands emerged from below.
“I was thinkingPretty in Pink?” A nod and a slight dip of the mattress later, and we were sitting together, sipping our coffee and watching Molly Ringwald kill it in yet another movie. Like everything else in my fucking life, the older a movie was, the better. And it really did get extra points if it was directed by John Hughes or starred Molly herself. There was something about his films that just made my insides feel warm.
Although I felt quite strongly, in this particular instance, that Andie should have ended up with Duckie, and the fact that shedidn’tfelt like a slight to all the oddballs and weirdos out there. I mean, he really was perfect for her. He understood her, saw her for exactly what she was, and loved her anyway. The way love should always be.
“Ugh, I love this part,” Esme chimed in from beside mebefore mimicking the film. “‘Did he have strong lips? Did you feel it in your knees?’”
“I felt it everywhere.” I laughed without missing a beat.God, how long had it been since I’d felt like that?Some questions were better left unanswered.
Once the movie ended, I let out a long, exasperated sigh. “They should have ended the film with Duckie and Andie reuniting at prom. Honestly, what was John thinking?”
“John?What wasJohnthinking?” Esme cackled, looking over at me before rolling her eyes. We’d only had this conversation a hundred times before. “Hmm, Quince, I don’t know. World-renowned writer and producer that you seem to be on a first-name basis with.What was he thinking?”
