At thirteen, my parents were shocked when I came home with my first bottle of hair dye. I can still remember the look of horror on my mom’s face after I emerged from the bathroom, my black hair lined with blood-red streaks.
“Here you go, buddy,” I croon, sliding Slash’s food into his enclosure. Releasing a big, reptilian yawn, he attacks his breakfast.
I lean against the dresser, watching him eat while sipping my coffee as more memories flood my mind.
That first year after Rowan left was brutal. I wasn’t just angry—I was furious. At him, at the world, at myself for caring so much about a stupid boy. A boy who I thought was one of my best friends. A boy who gave me my first kiss.
One would think dressing in black from head to toe was enough for me to prove a point. Oh, no. That was just the beginning. Soon came the heavy black eyeliner, dark lipstick, and safety pins in places safety pins have no business being pinned. I became the weird girl, the emo chick kids stared at and whispered about in the halls at school.
I chuckle to myself, shaking my head as Slash continues to inhale his collard greens.
The kids at school were merciless. They’d call me, “Morticia,” or “Vampire Barbie.” I didn’t give a shit—or at least, I pretended not to. The teasing just made me double down. I started drawing tattoos in permanent marker on my hands and arms, and wearing heavier makeup.
Next, came the fighting. First verbal, then physical. I’d come home at least once a week with a detention slip, blood under my fingernails and my shirt stretched out and ripped. After I got sent home for a third time, my parents lost their shit.
“We don’t know what to do with you anymore, Izzy,” my dad said, voice breaking. It wasn’t so much the anger that brought on the guilt, but the worry and disappointment in his eyes that really killed me.
So off to therapy I went, kicking and screaming the whole way. Dr. Cooper was patient, though. She let me sit in sullen silence for our first three sessions before I finally cracked and told her about Rowan and our first kiss. How he’d left without saying goodbye. But once she knew the full story, she was able to convince me that he didn’t have a choice. That he was just a kid like me who wouldn’t have had any control over how things went down.
After finishing his breakfast, Slash does his little head-bob, telling me he’s happy now that his tummy is full.
I reach in and stroke his spiny back. “You’re the only man I need in my life, aren’t you, buddy?” I sigh as he closes his eyes in bliss.
Therapy helped, though I never would’ve admitted it back then. Slowly, I started letting go. By the time tenth grade rolled around, I’d stopped snarling at everyone, slowly letting my walls come down.
The summer after tenth grade, I’d eased up on the all-black wardrobe and started wearing color again. Traded the full gothlook for just dying the tips of my hair. It was pink that summer, I think.
In eleventh grade, everything shifted. Boys started taking notice, and it wasn’t to make fun of me anymore. There was something about the combination of my height, the hint of rebellion in my pink-tipped hair, and the newfound confidence therapy had given me that seemed to drive the boys wild.
I started dating Zane Miller—my first real boyfriend—that same year. He was sweet, played bass in a garage band, and never pushed me too far or too fast. When his dad got transferred to Seattle two months into our senior year, we tried the long-distance thing, but we gave up after a few weeks.
And then, half-way through senior year, the universe decided to play its cruelest joke yet.
Years later, and I’m still haunted by what happened not only over the next six months, but after graduation.
My phone buzzes.
SASHA
You still coming to the party tonight?
I sigh, tossing my phone onto the counter. How could I forget? This party is all Sasha’s been talking about for the past couple of weeks, and with good reason.
After everything she’s been through—dealing with threats from the Vegas Triple Six, all the bullshit with her ex-boyfriend Ryan, and getting the new Summit Studio up and running—she deserves to relax and celebrate.
Wandering across the hardwood floor to the other side of my large industrial loft, I pull the tarp from my latest work. The canvas is massive—six feet by four feet—dominated by rich blues and blacks with violent splashes of crimson slashing through the dark paint.
Stepping back, I tilt my head. The piece is chaotic and raw—kind of reminds me of how I felt the summer after high school.
My phone buzzes again.
LOGAN
No skipping out on the party tonight, sis. I have a surprise for you. You don’t want to miss out on this.
Hovering my fingers over the keys, I consider making up an excuse. Last minute tattoo appointment? Food poisoning? A spontaneous trip to Antarctica?
My brother has been acting really weird lately, and I haven’t been able to pry any specific details out of him. Anytime I ask, he just tells me he’s stressing over his new job. My bet? It has more to do with how he’s going to be Reyna Winters’ boss than it does his new upcoming position as fire captain. Nothing like having a one-night stand, only for said one-night stand to move to the same town you live in a year later.
