Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute(44)
And even when I do get it, I’m…not sure. I catch her hand to stop her from leaving. Her cast is off now, her nails are painted pumpkin orange, and fine brown lines are etched deep into her palms. Celine thinks there’s life in those lines. I wonder what she’d read in mine.
“Sorry for what?” I ask, my eyes pinned to hers. I want every inch of this apology.
Her lips roll inward but she releases them again. “For…before.” Her voice is scratchy. “For all of this, everything we’ve…But mostly, for what I said to you, back when we fell out.”
I remember it. “Will your new friends want you then?”
“I shouldn’t have said it and I didn’t mean it,” she says, holding my gaze, every word clear. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Or with you having OCD, obviously. I just wanted to piss you off, but it was horrible and untrue and you’re…fine. Better than fine. Anyone who knew you would want you, okay? So. Yeah.” Celine snaps her mouth shut and her eyes finally slide away from mine. I don’t mind. I’m too busy slipping into a feather bed of Yes, thank God because I had no idea how much I wanted to hear her say all that. There was a last little ember of hurt in me, and she just blew it out.
“Good,” I manage, my voice half a breath, a gasp. “Good, that’s…great.”
“So. Um. I’ll stop being weird with you, and you stop examining the darkness of my soul, or whatever. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I manage. “Yeah. Okay.” I let go of her hand. I watch her disappear into the shroud of fog that hides the road into town. Then I slump against the nearest wall and lurch back into my body, like when you’re following directions on your phone and press the button to take you back to the little arrow on the map, and the perspective on the screen goes zoom. You know? Here’s my new perspective: my mouth is dry, my heart is still thundering against my ribs, the difference between a smile and a scowl on her face is the difference between rainfall and drought and— Oh shit no no no no no…
I am so into Celine.
MONDAY, 8:47 P.M.
ROSEWOOD MASSIVE
Donno changed the group name to: YOUR STD TEST RESULTS HAVE ARRIVED
Brad changed the group name to: football
Harley changed the group name to: ROSEWOOD MASSIVE
Donno : all right lads here’s next week’s starting & reserve team
Donno : <teamlist.doc>
Brad?: me and Jordan aren’t on there
Donno : play better then
Jordan: lol you so butthurt man
Jordan: tragic
CHAPTER NINE
CELINE
Being friends with Brad again is weird.
Not bad weird. Just…you know when you were a little kid and you went to a birthday party and ate five times the amount of sugar your parents usually allowed, and you felt dangerously high? It’s that kind of weird. And something in me is tense as if I’m waiting for the crash.
Like I don’t have enough on my mind. Final year was always going to be a struggle—uni applications, exams, and now the BEP—but I can’t stop thinking about Aurora’s birthday. About the way everyone described their plans, like the future was dragging them forward instead of adding to the weight on their backs. I even texted her about it.
Celine: how come you want to study art?
Aurora: it’s basically the only thing I’m good at
Celine: ??? wrong
Aurora: okay maybe not
Aurora: more like
Aurora: it’s the only thing I CARE about being good at.
Well, I care most about law. I always have. So there’s no reason for this weird, sloshing uncertainty in my stomach whenever I think about my glittering, corporate, take-over-Dad’s-business-and-ruin-his-life future. I turn my back on pointless anxieties and snuggle deeper into my pillow, scrolling through TikTok and saving all the best sounds.
It’s December, and I’m planning a theme: Christmas Conspiracies. Santa Claus sightings, capitalist manipulations of the workforce during the holidays, and anything else slightly bonkers and compelling and festive I can think of. I already feel my stress levels sinking. Who needs candy cane–scented candles when there’s social media chaos?
A knock sounds at my bedroom door. “Hey,” Giselle says. “How’s it going?”
“Fine.” I flash my sister a smile and switch over to my Notes app, typing out a potential idea about hot chocolate, lactose intolerance, and Santa’s nefarious intentions. “What about you? How was work?” She’s a crew member at McDonald’s because, apparently, shift work suits her “creative cycle” better than a nine to five.
“Ugh. They’re still refusing to put me in the kitchen. But you have such a pretty smile, Giselle!” she mimics, flopping onto my bed like a dying swan. Her never-ending arms knock my snuggly crocheted mushroom off his favorite pillow.
“Oi,” I say, reaching over to restore him to his rightful throne. “Watch it.”