Like parties.
BRADY
Or venting.
BROWNE
Or helping with homework.
DARCY COLE
Oh.
Thank you, but I’m good.
“Orange or green?” Cleo’s voice pries me from my thoughts as she holds up two dresses, one in each hand, giving them a little shake. Her eyes flick between them, calculating, as if the trajectory of her entire life hinges on this one decision.
My brows furrow as I study them. “I thought you and Will were just talking about majors,” I say, suspicion creeping into my tone.
“We are.”
“Then why are you dressing up?”
Cleo’s nose wrinkles, her expression shifting in a mix of bewilderment and mock offense. “You don’t ever dress up for yourself?”
I pause, considering it. I used to dress up all the time, mostly for the satisfaction of knowing I looked damn good, but in the past few months, my skin’s felt like it’s been set ablaze.
That part’s called Raynaud’s. It makes your blood vessels shrink like wool in a hot washer. Sometimes it’s because of the climate. Sometimes it’s for no reason at all. My skin flushespurple, and it starts burning, itching, like I’ve been dipped in a swarm of fire ants.
Not all people with RA have Raynaud’s. I’m just one of the lucky ones, I guess.
So I’ve been defaulting to anything that keeps me warm, and doesn’t aggravate my tingling skin. Loose sweats, soft turtleneck sweaters. Gloves. Half the time, it’s as if I’ve picked out my outfits with my eyes closed. But when your body feels like a burning pit of itchy, brittle lava, the last thing you care about is what you look like.
“Not for a while,” I admit. “Good point.”
Cleo studies me earnestly. “Well, you really should. Even just once a week. Confidence is scientifically proven to make you feel better.”
I chuckle softly, unable to suppress the small smile that tugs at my lips. She’s trying so hard to be a friend, and though I might not be completely ready for that, I’m not going to pretend I don’t appreciate it. She waves the dresses again.
I give them both another careful look before responding, “Green.” Cleo nods, sliding the rust-colored dress back onto the rod with a satisfied sigh.
“Thanks. Okay, sorry, what were you saying?”
I press the rewind button in my brain, trying to recall whatever thought was about to leave my mouth before we got sidetracked into the depths of fashion and mental health.
What was it again?Oh, right.
“She’s just sococky!”I exclaim, flinging my hands in the air like I’m measuring the sheer volume of Peyton’s arrogance, as if it’s a physical thing that can be quantified.
If it were, it’d be Mount Everest. A towering monument of cockiness so high, it’d give you altitude sickness. The Great Wall of China, stretching for miles, so long even binoculars couldn’t make you see the end of it. No, scratch that. If Peyton’sarrogance could be measured, it’d be a wormhole. A paradox of an ego that sucks everything into it, leaving no room for anything but her self-absorption.
“She’s a hockey player” Cleo shrugs, as if the fact explains itself. But it doesn’t. I’ve been around hockey players my entire life. I am—wasa hockey player. Arrogance isn’t a hockey player thing. It’s a having-a-pro-dad-and-thinking-that-automatically-makes-you-untouchable thing.
I roll my eyes, letting them drop to the clipboard in front of me. The sound of my pen scribbling over my notes fills the quiet space. “Are you nervous for yourdate?”
Cleo’s brows knit disapprovingly. “It’s not adate.It’s just two people grabbing coffee and talking about school.”
“Mhm,” I hum in response, flashing her an unconvinced look. Cleo pretends not to hear me, turning back into her closet.
