Pretty Reckless (All Saints High 1)

I envelop her. Even when Daria is growling like an injured animal in my ear. Even when the sea glass necklace, her sea glass necklace, burns a hole in my back pocket, right next to her pompom string, demanding to go back to its rightful owner. Even when a scream rips from her throat, and I need to cover it with my palm. I hold her.

“Go to your girlfriend. She needs you more than I do.”

She does. Addy and Harper need me desperately. But they’re not who I want to be with.

“I bet this is your first time breaking.” I wipe her tears away. “I used to break all the time. Under a bridge. Next to a bunch of homeless people. I used to scream at the river and punch concrete walls after Via disappeared.”

She wanted something real and inconvenient, so she is getting it.

“I couldn’t talk for days afterward. I once punched my own face to see if I could cry. The answer is no, by the way. And when my mom died? I went to the snake pit hoping Vaughn would kill me. I let him fuck me up just so I could feel something. Because, you see, I’m the tin man. I have no heart. Not since Via left. She was my entire world. Adriana and Harper, I take care of them, but it’s not the same. My heart was rusty before she left, but after? After, it was gone. Is that real enough for you, Daria Followhill?”

She sniffs and gazes up at me. Her blue eyes are so spectacular, they look like two bowls full of diamonds. Skull Eyes’ lips are trembling around the words she is still too proud to say. Her whole face is shiny with tears and snot. I press a soft kiss to the tip of her runny nose. She immediately sniffs. Like I give a fuck about a little snot.

“You’re Saturn,” she whispers. “Made of iron-nickel and surrounded by protective rings of ice and rock.”

“How do you know that?” I smile, and I know the smile is warm. I know it’s fucking up something in her chest, and even though I shouldn’t, I like it. After all these years, I still want to ruin her. Then put her back together. Then do it again and again and a-fucking-gain.

“Bailey knows stuff about stuff. Sometimes I pick it up at the dinner table. Why were you home late today?” she asks.

Because I knew you’d be here.

“I saw Adriana,” I lie.

I hug her tighter because she is squirming again, desperate to run away, and I can’t let her.

And when she breaks within my arms, I glue her back, tuck her in bed, and kiss her forehead, not letting go until she is sound asleep.

He wants to let her go

But can’t seem to set her free

Because if she does end up returning

She’ll see who he fell in love with and flee

Lying on the giant flamingo float in our Roman-shaped swimming pool, I stare up at the sun through my sunglasses. The sun is a lot like hate—beautiful and lethal and essential for our survival. It can blind you, but it also keeps you going. Hate motivates much more than love. Love is content and peaceful. Happy people aren’t driven. They simply…exist. Now, us, hateful people, we’re something else. Hungry and desperate.

Hateful people make the best lovers.

The soft whoosh of the water underneath me tricks me into relaxing my muscles and giving in to nirvana. I blink at the tall palm trees, cloudless sky, and landscape of Todos Santos, and wonder how someone with so much can feel so little.

I feel like a piece of the jigsaw, the one forgotten under the carpet that no one bothers to look for.

“Lovebug? Sweetie?” The double glass door slides open, and Mel walks out in one of her turquoise beach dresses and a giant straw hat. We’re the same size.

Melody was smaller than me when she was my age. A true ballerina, her ribs stuck out, and you could see every fine muscle in her back. Every time she huffs and puffs in front of the mirror, complaining about not being a size zero anymore, she averts her eyes to me quickly and apologizes. “Not that size four is not small.”

No, Mother. It’s just not perfect. By your standards, anyway.

I ignore her, still floating and staring at the sky.

She takes a seat on one of the 2k-apiece yellow and red Moroccan lounge chairs and sips from her skinny margarita. “We need to talk, Dar.”

We actually don’t. We haven’t in years, and you didn’t seem to mind.

“Are you going to ignore me forever?”

Not forever. Just until I can articulate to her how she is hurting me. By putting Bailey first. Dad first. Penn first. But telling her all those things conveys vulnerability, and the only thing I have going for me is that my mother thinks I’m strong. Penn is right. The minute you admit something, it becomes real.