These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

Still he takes a few moments to answer, “Yes.”

“So you think going out with your brother is the right move for me.”

Looking into my eyes, he says, “Yes. It’s the right thing to do.”

Right thing to do.

That’s what he said when he called me into his office and told me that we were over.

That’s exactly what he said.

Along with a bunch of other things. Things that I kept focusing on for the last three weeks.

Idiotically, stupidly.

So fucking stupidly.

Not anymore though. Not anymore.

Now I’m going to focus on the real thing.

The truth.

Of what happened that day in his office.

I smile then, big and bright and fake. “Of course, I’m all for doing the right thing. So I think I’ll say yes. I have to admit that I did think it would be a little weird, going out with your brother, given our history. But I think I was wrong. I think he could be the guy for me. The right guy. Besides, you’re with the right girl of your own, aren’t you? You’re with your dream girl and I think it’s time I got a dream man of my own.”

I’m wearing my yellow ball gown.

The one I wore the night I met him.

I’ve kept it close to me ever since that night. I brought it to St. Mary’s with me even.

I think tonight is a good night for it.

To wear the dress he first saw me in.

I’m also wearing my favorite lipstick, his favorite too: Pinky Winky Promises. Along with a ton of jewelry, because he likes me in jewelry, and that belly chain he gave me, which I have to admit I did keep on despite everything.

Despite what he did.

But anyway, I’ve made myself up just the way he likes it.

Just the way he dreams about.

Because now I know what he dreams about.

I know.

And I’m going to tell him that.

I’m going to tell him what I know when I see him.

Because that’s where I’m going.

I’m sneaking out of St. Mary’s and going to his house in the middle of the night. I’m sure he’ll have plenty of things to say about that, about me roaming the streets in my pretty ball gown at midnight, but the thing is that I’m none of his concern now.

He gave me up himself.

So I don’t care.

Anyway.

When I do reach his house, I don’t go for the door.

Even though I know he’s awake; he doesn’t sleep much and I’m sure he’s definitely not sleeping tonight. Because only hours before he told me to go date his brother.

So he must be restless.

He must be in pain.

I’m not though.

For the first time in days, I’m not in pain. I’m not dead.

I’m angry.

I’m furious.

So I go to his truck that’s parked out front, on the empty, sleepy street. I set down my messenger bag I brought with me from school and, bending down, I root around for my favorite spray paint: pink. Also purple. Along with other colors.

And then I get to work.

On his truck.

I wave my arms around as I go. I make circles and lines as I fill his truck with colors. With flowers and stars. With clouds and rainbows. I even go so far as to make unicorns on his black masculine fucking vehicle.

Take that, Conrad Thorne.

Take it.

Because I’m going to shove magical horses and pink glitter down his throat even if it’s the last thing I do. I’m going to fill his dark life with bright sunshine and he can’t stop me.

He can’t stop me from giving him his dream in Technicolor.

And then I’m going to knock at his door so he can see what I made for him.

So he can look at it and weep, all alone in his house.

Only I don’t have to knock at his door.

He opens it all by himself as I reach the end of the graffiti.

He emerges out of his house, all sweaty and panting — probably from kicking the ball all alone in his backyard like he usually does — his overgrown hair messy and hanging in his eyes, looking like the man of my dreams.

Although for a second, something about him gives me pause.

The fact that there are… streaks of paint. On his bare forearms and also his white t-shirt.

There’s one on the side of his jaw and I…

“Bronwyn,” he says like he can’t believe I’m here, standing in front of his house. “What… What the…”

At his deep but bewildered voice, I decide to not care.

I don’t care why he’s got paint on him.

It’s none of my business.

He made it so.

So he can go to hell right now.

“Hi,” I say, waving at him while still holding my spray paint, which I then throw away in his yard.

Wiping his parted mouth with the back of his hand, he walks further out, getting to the edge of his porch, squinting at me, at the can that I just threw away, before focusing on his truck.