“Jace.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever you’re about to say. Don’t.”
I can hear it coming. The pity. The concern.
She moves to the stove and pours the eggs into the pan. They sizzle and pop in the heat.
“How long has it been broken?”
“A while.”
“How long is a while?”
“Since January.”
Her shoulders go rigid.
“It’s March.”
“I’m aware.”
“Jesus Christ, Jace.”
There it is. The horror. The disbelief that someone could live that way.
I rest my elbows on the counter and watch how her curls shift as she moves. I notice the morning light catching on her glasses when she tilts her head.
She’s beautiful.
The thought hits me unexpectedly. The kind that doesn’t ask permission before it settles in your chest and makes itself comfortable.
Not beautiful in the way girls at school are beautiful. Not the kind who walk the halls with painted mouths and perfect hair, tits pushed up and lips pouted, waiting for a round of Jace Cooper’s cock so they can brag about it later to their friends. That kind of beauty is superficial. Disposable. Forgettable.
This isn’t anything like that.
This is Lola Bellamy standing in her kitchen in yesterday’s clothes, hair falling loosely around her shoulders, and her skin pale from too many sleepless nights. Her world is balanced on a knife’s edge, and she’s still here, still standing… breathing.
She’s real. There’s nothing polished about her. It’s not a rehearsed performance.
“I hate that,” she whispers.
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not your problem.”
Her eyes flash behind those glasses. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Shutting me out.”
I scrub a hand down my face, rough enough to hurt. “I’m not shutting you out.”
