Then she goes to shower.
I’ve been sitting on her bed ever since, trying to wrack my brains as to what could have possibly happened.
What if. What if. What if.
Her phone buzzes. I glance over and see a message from Gemma, but can only see the first sentence. I’m not willing to break her trust and read the full thing.
She’ll tell me when she’s ready.
I glance at the message anyway.
That was fucking wild. See you at the PARTY.
The party.
Wait, Cookie has a party tonight? She never mentioned anything. Realisation sets in that the only party Gemma could be talking about was Harry’s.
No fucking way.
The door to her bedroom opens, and she steps in. The raised voices of our foster parents filters in behind her before she closes the door, silencing the storm that’s brewing downstairs.
“Promise me you’re not coming to Harry’s party tonight.” The words fly out my mouth with more annoyance than I had meant to, and I wince at my harshness.
Her eyes, which are still blood shot, stare at me with a stubbornness that only Lucy can portray. Her body encased in a white, fluffy towel. Her hands stop towel drying her hair, and water droplets fall from the ends down onto her shoulder. My eyes follow this one drip that disappears under—fuck.
“I don’t remember a time where I asked or needed your permission.”
I stare at her, my jaw clenches. “You think James is just going to let you out?”
“I think what James doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him.”
“Or me or you,” I add sarcastically, and she at least has the decency to flinch.
I may be older and bigger, but that doesn’t mean James can’t still hurt me. She walks towards me and drops onto the bed next to me, grabbing her phone.
“You read my messages? Not cool, Owen.”
“It buzzed, and I only read the first line. You can’t go to the party.”
“Why, in case you have to acknowledge me in public?” she snaps, standing and grabbing some underwear out of her top drawer. She yanks her pyjama drawer open aggressively before reaching in and pulling out a t-shirt and shorts.
“Don’t worry your little head, your social record will stay intact. I’m not going to the party,” she says before she marches to the door, her hips swaying as she yanks it open.
“That’s not what I’m worried about, and you know it.”
She pauses, takes a breath, and nods once. She knows what I’m talking about. She knows my concern; I don’t need to voice it.
“Promise me, Cookie.”
She looks over her shoulder, her blue eyes meeting mine.
“I promise.”
27
Kara - Present
“Weneedtotalk.”I barge into the guest bedroom with the grace of a drunken herd of elephants.
