I tuck my phone back into my pocket and check my reflection one last time in the rearview mirror. Haunted, empty gray eyes stare back at me. The scarred flesh on the back of my elbow itches and burns where a surgeon tried his best to piece it back together. There are more scars on my hip and back where they took skin and bone to make me whole again. I can’t forget I’m only ever one bad choice away from losing control. Those scars remind me why I can’t give a fuck about anyone or anything.
“Let’s go.” Carson huffs as I unfold my rigid body from the car.
We glance at each other, a faint acknowledgment that this is the way things are now. We aren’t friends anymore. Not after that night two years ago. After Kailani left, I booted everyone out and broke Carson’s nose in the middle of my front lawn. Message received, loud and clear. Don’t touch what doesn’t fucking belong to you. Shit has been tense between us ever since, but we have a mutual understanding. We’re both on the football team. The same clingers-on follow us around like puppies. We can’t let them see that anything bothers us. We have to play the part, all while we self-destruct in ways of our own choosing. We haven’t gotten over what happened, but neither one of us is ready to pull the cord completely on this fucked-up friendship.
We walk into the school together, shoulders squared and faces blank. A few bright-eyed freshman girls try to stop us inside the door, asking me for an autograph.
“Go away.” Carson bats the air like they’re flies, and usually, he’s the nice one.
I give him the side-eye, wondering what the hell crawled up his ass. Typically, I’m the one known for being an asshole, but today, he’s walking around like we just lost the playoffs.
“What’s your deal?” I sling my backpack over my shoulder and wade through the crowd that rushes to get out of our way. “They run out of mood stabilizers at the drug store?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” he mutters under his breath.
The undercurrent of tension in his voice coils every muscle in my body. I don’t know why my eyes drift to her locker. Maybe it’s a habit. Maybe it’s instinct. I haven’t had my fix of staring at that empty space for the entire summer. The school tried to reassign that locker several times, but nobody wanted it. It had been vandalized so often they had to replace the door twice. At one point, they were painting a fresh coat over the words etched into the metal every day. There were several assemblies where the principal uttered threats about the destruction, and it finally seemed to stop when they assigned a temporary hall monitor to watch during breaks. It’s been sitting there like a coffin ever since. But the bright red paint can’t hide the decay underneath. And now, again, it’s become a canvas for someone’s black Sharpie.
Demon slut.
Tension seeps into my shoulders, and the world around me narrows. Why now? Why again?
I don’t realize I’m stopped in the middle of the hallway until someone breezes past me, and I catch a hint of perfume. Notes of jasmine, frangipani, and ocean breezes short-circuit my nervous system. I’ve carried that scent with me for two years. All I ever had to do was close my eyes, and there it was. Kailani, sitting on my patio, leaning in to explain the same math problem over again. Every time I furrowed my brow, she thought I wasn’t getting it. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I wasn’t really that far behind. She spent her summer teaching me things I already knew, but it gave me the chance to memorize something else.
Sun-kissed raven hair. Warm brown eyes. Perfectly sloped curves.
I try to blink away her memory, but this time, it’s too tangible.
Beside me, I hear Carson sucking in a sharp breath, and my gaze follows his to the long midnight hair dipping down to the curve of a red and black skirt. My eyes collect details in rapid-fire. Her white knee-high socks. Shiny black shoes. A blazer draped casually over her left arm. It can’t be her. I’m certain it isn’t because Kailani is all curves, and this girl is nipped in at the waist like every other girl at BMA. I don’t want to believe it. But then she stops in front of her locker and cocks her head to the side, studying the message written there.
“Cute,” she murmurs, grabbing the lock and entering the combination like she was here just yesterday.
I’m transfixed on the side of her face, aware that everyone else is watching her too. We can’t look away from this train wreck. I’m still convinced I have it all wrong. This girl’s energy is more voodoo and less sunshine. She’s unperturbed, seemingly careless that every set of eyes is on her as she stuffs her locker full of books. She hasn’t even looked at me, and I can’t accept that.