I nod, walk out of the mansion, and lean against my bike. I stare at the milky moon, inhaling the crisp air burning my lungs.
I’m going to have to trick Lilac into marriage. The woman’s already a commitment-phobe, but I don’t care—she’s going to be with me whether she likes it or not. She’s going to hate me at first, but once she realizes we’re meant to be together, she’ll accept it. I just have to convince her that she’s mine. She doesn’t have to love me, she just needs to realize she belongs to me.
I fish my phone out from my jeans and bring up our text message thread.
Me: Hey, princess. We have a date tomorrow night at 7 p.m.
Princess: No. I have plans.
Me: Cancel it.
Princess: No.
Me: I’m more important.
Princess:laughing emojiNo, you’re not.
Me: As your boyfriend, that hurts. I know you didn’t mean it, so I’ll let it slide.
Princess: You’re annoying. Do you know the meaning of the word no? You should look itup in the dictionary. Don’t forget the word delusional, too.
Me:kissing emojiYou’re gorgeous. I can’t wait to see you.
My phone vibrates with another text message, but I don’t bother reading it because I know it’s her. I put on my helmet, turn on my bike, and drift off down the road.
Lilac
The next morning, I throw my legs over the bed and inhale deeply.
I recite: I’m safe. Emerson is dead. My life is peaceful. I’m not back in Buckhead. Not in the bloody living room.
The stench hits—iron, fat, chemicals—burning my nostrils. My stomach twists. I stumble to the bathroom, hurl sour acid into the toilet. Grab the mouthwash, swish the sharp mint across my tongue, spit. Nothing kills it. Nothing.
I slide down against the inky stone slab, knees pulled tight, forehead pressed against them. Chest tight. Heart hammering. Holding myself together before I fall apart.
I close my eyes, whispering,”I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.”
Slowly, my pulse slows. My stomach calms. I feel a little stronger, a little more… me.
I stand up, wash my face, put my relaxed lavender hair in a bun, and throw on my cashmere sweater and leggings, my ankle boots, before heading out the door to meet Lyrical.
I inhale the moist air and look at the overcast sky, tightening my backpack across my shoulders.
Sometimes, I dread facing my friends because I feel like a fraud, lying to them about my past. I’ve never told anyone about it, and I want to keep it that way. I don’t want them to judge me for something I had no control over.
I sit at the gazebo, waiting for Lyrical, watching the needles of ice that decorate the concrete. I bundle up in my coat, set my book bag next to me, and shove my fingers into my pockets, tapping my foot on the floor.
Lyrical shows up, and I get up and hug her.
“Hey.” Lyrical sets her bag onto the driftwood floor. “What was it that you wanted to talk about?”
Her raven hair is in a neat high ponytail today, and her stormy blue eyes shine like stars. She’s gorgeous. Wearing a white leather jacket and dark jeans, she leans back in the wooden seat, crossing her legs.
I’m curious how the American Billionaire Club works, and I don’t want to ask Irvin. He might really think I want to be with him.
“I’m curious about the American Billionaire Club,” I state.
She cocks her eyebrow for me to go on.
