Punk 57

“You can say whatever you want,” I retort. “Doesn’t make it true.”

Her head falls, and she inhales shaky breaths through her nose, clearly trying to calm herself and get her body under control. The inhaler lays on the floor. I wish she’d just take the fucking thing. She’s making me nervous.

“I was the real me when I wrote you those letters,” she says quietly. “I was everything I wanted to be.”

And I can understand that. There are definitely some minor things I haven’t told her, because I wanted to be free with her, like I can’t be at home. But she has to know that, even though what I did was crazy and things got way out of hand, it hurt me, too, to be tricked. To find that the person you care about and hold on a pedestal is shallow and mean to the rest of the world.

“And when you would write me,” I ask her, “telling me to stand up to my dad, believe in myself, stay true with no regrets… Why would you tell me those things when you didn’t follow them yourself?”

She looks away, but I don’t back off. I stare at her, holding her hostage. Why preach to me all the things you didn’t have the courage to do yourself?

“Hmm?” I prod, dipping my head down to meet her eyes.

“Because…” she whispers, avoiding my eyes. “Because you want good things for the people you…”—she breathes fast, barely whispering—“love.”

I suck in a sharp breath. God, what is she doing to me?

I’d give anything—anything—to have her in my arms right now.

I reach for her, cupping her face, my mouth less than an inch from hers. “Ryen, please…”

The tears and quiet sobs start again, and I try to comfort her, but she pushes me away. “Oh, God, get out,” she cries, holding up her hands to keep me away. “I can’t look at you right now. I can’t wrap my head around this. I feel sick.”

“Ryen, please,” I beg, feeling the ache in my chest spread. “I love you—”

“Oh, God!” she cuts me off. “Get out!”

I wince, my eyes burning with tears. I feel like my heart is ripping apart.

I watch as she buries her head in her hands and stands there, breaking in two.

There’s no way I can go back and change this. While she may have been vile to others, she was always a good friend to me, and I can’t say the same. She aggravated me and pissed me off, but I broke this. I’m responsible.

I bend down and pick up the inhaler, putting it on the desk in case she needs it.

And then I climb back out through the window and head back to the Cove. I’m not going home.

I’m not going anywhere until she’s mine.

“Where were you this morning?” Ten asks, a hint of worry in his voice. “Lyla said you skipped practice.”

I walk down the hall at school with him beside me, having left myself barely enough time to hit my locker and race upstairs to Art before first period starts. He walks at my side.

“I was tired.” I pull my baseball cap down a little farther to shield my red eyes.

“You slept in?” His tone is confused. “Coach is going to make you run laps for that.”

I’m sure he’s right. But I can’t bring myself to care right now.

While I showered, blew out my hair, and put on make-up this morning, my brain kept drifting back to Misha, and I started tearing up again. I couldn’t keep mascara on, so I gave up and grabbed a hat.

My eyes burn, and my lids just want to close forever. I blink hard at the shot of pain digging into my skull between my eyes and clutch the strap of my bag tighter, hoping against hope that he isn’t here today. If I can’t think about him without crying, I certainly can’t look at him.

Veering toward my locker on the right, I spot a group of students ahead, some pausing to read something on the wall and some taking pictures of it. I look up, immediately recognizing the Eminem lyric.

Needles prick my throat, and I look away. He can go screw himself. He doesn’t like that rapper, and even though I do, quoting his songs isn’t going to get on my good side.

“Well, well, well,” Ten muses. “I thought he got caught or something. He’s been slacking on the messages.”