And I couldn't say anything. Couldn't tell her that seeing those scars didn't make me think less of her, didn't make me want to run, didn't change the fact that I'd do anything to help her if she'd just let me.
I just stood there like an idiot and let her walk away.
The ceiling fan rotates slowly above me in the same pattern it's traced every night since I moved in. Everything's the same as it was yesterday, last week, last month.
Except nothing's the same at all.
Because Maya's here now, and she's not okay, and I know things I shouldn’t, and I'm lying in my bed at night wondering if she's safe two floors above me.
All I know is that I need to figure out how to help her before those scars become something worse.
Before I lose her to whatever darkness she's fighting.
Because the thought of Maya not existing in this world anymore makes it hard to breathe.
8
MAYA
"We're going out."
I look up from where I'm sitting on the guest room floor, Max curled in my lap. Emma's standing in the doorway wearing jeans and a flowy top that hides her barely-there bump, hands on her hips.
"What?"
"Out. Dancing. Drinks. Girls' night." She steps into the room. "Chase and Jackson have Ethan duty tonight. We're going to get you out of this house."
The thought of going to a club makes my stomach turn. "I'm good here."
"You've been here for almost two weeks, and you've barely left except for groceries and that coffee run with Jackson." She sits on the edge of the bed. "Come on. We used to do this all the time."
We did. Before Lily. Before the rape. Before I became this hollow thing pretending to be human.
"I don't know, Em?—"
"I'm not asking." Her voice is gentle butfirm. "You need to get out. And I need to pretend I'm not a pregnant lady who can't drink. We'll be each other's excuse to leave early if it sucks."
I want to say no, want to stay here with Max and my journal and the four walls that feel safer than anywhere else.
But Emma's looking at me with that expression that says she's worried and trying not to show it. And I owe her this. Owe her the performance of being okay, of being the friend she remembers.
"Fine. But I'm not dressing up."
"Deal."
An hour later, I'm in jeans that actually fit, borrowed from Emma's pre-pregnancy wardrobe, and a black long-sleeved top that covers my arms. I've done my makeup, though my hands shook the entire time. Left my curls down because Emma insisted, and I'm wearing the silver bracelet Jackson gave me for my birthday years ago.
Keep shining, Stardust.
I don't feel like I'm shining. I feel like I'm barely flickering.
Emma drives because she can't drink anyway. The club is downtown, next to a tattoo parlor. There's already a line outside despite it being barely 10 p.m.
"We don't have to wait," Emma says, leading me past the line to the bouncer. She says something I don't catch, and he waves us through.
Inside, the music is so loud I feel it in my chest. Bass that pounds in time with my heartbeat. Lights flash: red, blue, purple, turning everything into a strobe. Bodies everywhere, pressed together on the dance floor.
Too many people. Too close. Too loud.
