I imagine his jaw tightening when he sees me out. Laughing. Alive. Untouchable. I imagine the tension crawling back into his shoulders, the way his eyes darken when he realizes I'm not waiting where he left me.
Jealousy flickers through me, warm and steady.
He doesn't get to leave and keep me frozen in place.
Demi's words replay, softer this time.
Let him miss you.
I decide that's exactly what I'm going to do. And when he does, when it hits him hard enough that staying away hurts worse than the risk, he won't walk out again.
I go into my camera, forgetting they deleted my photos of him. So I pull up his website, copy the photo on it, then all the other pictures of him I can find on the internet, and start a new folder.
Then I get up, put on every single outfit on the rack that's for him, and take suggestive shots of my different body parts in them.
When the time is right, I'm going to have more than enough ammunition to get exactly what I deserve.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Red
Asharp, insistent buzz cuts into the silence. I reach over and slap the alarm clock, and blink a few times while taking in the morning light. Sunrays slice through the half-closed blinds in thin, pale strips across the sheets.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling fan that turns in slow, lazy circles above me, inhaling the faint trace of perfume that still clings to the sheets.
Blue.
Her name hits me square in the chest, like a fist closing around my ribs. I close my eyes. Her electric-blue, wide, and glassy eyes, and lips parted with shaky breaths, haunt me. The memory carries heat, and then all the others follow.
She's pressing her mouth against mine in the middle of the sidewalk. Her fingers curl into my coat like she could anchor herself there forever. Then the flash of Shirley's terrified expression across the street interrupts it.
I exhale through my nose, long and controlled. My hand moves on its own, reaching for the phone on the charger. The screen lights upstating it's 7:42 a.m.
Disappointment hits me, and I know it's wrong. I should be glad there are no new messages or missed calls. Yet what's good for me and what I want are two different things.
I open my contacts, but Mikhail erased her name. There's no way to tap and hear her voice. A surprising round of anger hits me, mixing with my frustration.
If I could call her, would her voice be trembling, flat, or edged with that dangerous quiet she slips into when the world presses too hard?
A new nightmare tortures me. I picture her curled on the couch in her apartment, knees drawn up, blue hair falling over her face like a curtain. The razor she keeps in the bathroom drawer, the one she showed me once with a small, careless shrug, is in her hand. Blood blooms along the inside of her wrist in thin red lines.
My pulse kicks hard against my throat.
I need to make sure she's safe.
All it will take is one sentence.
"I'm checking on you."
Or "Are you okay?"
I should tell her the truth.
"I can't stop thinking about you, and it's tearing me apart."
Stop being an idiot.
She'll answer, and then the conversation will spiral the way it always does. Soft confessions will turn sharp. Promises I can't keep will tangle with the guilt that lives under my skin now.
