There she is again, like a bad smell that won’t dissipate. The queen of all things wicked, standing in the way of my peace of mind. I constantly remind myself that I hate her.
I do. I really do, but I’m also dying to touch her again.
Dying to see how she’d react.
That’s wrong for so many different reasons.
We’ve exchanged a few casualheys in passing since the party, but nothing more than that. Any interaction beyondheywould be a mistake.
Still, I wait for her to acknowledge me. An unyielding tightness grips my throat, irritation mounting.
I’m losing sight of what’s right. I shouldn’t even talk to her, so why does the lack of that fuckingheydrive me up the wall?
Why isn’t she saying it? Have I done something to annoy her? is she pissed off? Does she expect me to take the lead?
I can’t decipher her thoughts, and the uncertainty gnaws like a woodworm on the papermill of my mind.
I won’t sayheyfirst. No way.
I fucking won’t.
We’re not friends. We’re not even friendly. I hate her.
With that little reminder, I open my condo just as Blair’s keys jingle to the ground. Turning to close the door, I find her kneeling on the carpeted floor, shoulders sagged, a tiny shudder shaking her frame.
My own shoulders square back, tension knotting my guts.
I think she’s—
A whimper slips from her lips, confirming what I already know. The thought of tears streaming down her face sets my nerves on edge. Her nails are white as she grips the keys, trying not to drop them again, fighting to keep herself composed, her hands trembling.
An icy shudder sweeps across my skin: goosebumps. My eyes narrow, lips fall apart, but... words don’t come. What the hell would I say?
Are you okay?
She’s clearly not, and I don’t give a fuck why. I really don’t. Honest to God. Idon’t.
If that were true, though, I wouldn’t still be here, hand on the handle, door ajar.
She finally finds the right key and gathers herself off the floor. The red dress she wears is as inappropriate as Blair herself. Combing her long dark-brown, almost auburn hair behind her ears, she inhales deeply, pushing the key into the lock, her movements slow and deliberate.
“Show’s over,” she half whispers, half chokes, and the defeat coating her words ices my blood. “Goodnight.”
Without a backward glance, she disappears inside and slams the door shut, thebangknocking me out of my trance. I shut my own door, ignoring a twinge of guilt.
Maybe I should’ve said something. Maybe I should’ve asked if she needed help.
Or maybe you should see a shrink.
Maybe I should. Looks like I’m losing the plot here.
Let her cry. She deserves whatever caused her tears.
I fuckinghatethat girl.
Tossing my keys into a ball on the narrow side table—something I’ve copied from Nico’s house—I shimmy out of my jacket, hanging it in the coat closet.
The temperature outside hit eighty degrees today, so not jacket-wearing weather, but the early morning rain had me jogging back to grab one as I headed to the site.
