Bookishly Ever After (Ever After #1)(45)
Nudging her with a teasing expression, Leia said, “We’re supposed to be supportive, Grace.”
“You don’t go to our school. You don’t get a vote.” But Grace’s voice was light and she winked at me. “Fair enough, you get a pass on a few days of moping. But if you start acting like Alec did when Katie broke up with him, I’ll personally escort you to the outcast table.”
That made me smile again. “If I start writing really bad poetry and reciting it every time Dev’s in earshot, you have my permission to send me to Coventry.” At their shared look of confusion, I added, “You know, exile me? Regency?” Leia had an excuse because it was impossible to know what they taught in her snobby private school, but Grace really should have gotten the reference. “We learned that in English class last year during the Jane Austen module? You two seriously need to read more.”
Leia dropped her chin in her hand and winked at Grace. “Sounds to me like she’s feeling better already.”
Grace studied me for a second and nodded. “Totally agree. She’s saying English nerd stuff already.”
“I think I liked her when she was a little bit depressed and not so much of a know-it-all,” Leia said in a bored tone.
I feigned offense. “Hey! Thanks to that comment, I’m taking back what I said about you being awesome.”
“Aww, you actually liked me?” Leia twiddled her fingers in an evil-professor fashion. “My world domination plan is slowly taking effect.”
I laughed, then sobered up, leaning back to get them both in my line of sight. “Thank you for making me forget the whole miserable feeling of rejection thing for a little while.”
Grace reached over and squished me in a onearmed hug. “I’m glad we could help. Plus, I put a lot of hard work into making you look presentable and I don’t want you to use this as a reason to slip back into your old ways.” She tilted her head and grinned at me. “You’re coming to my New Year’s party, right?”
“Of course. Why?”
“So’s Dev. We’re going to make you so gorgeous, he’ll see you at the party and regret not picking you. And then you can ring in the New Year looking like you stepped out of Vogue.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”
“Trust me, it’ll be fun. Being a little bit evil always is.”
Sunday.
All I wanted to do all day was go through my notebook and figure out what could have gone wrong. Or fall into a pile of books and only come up for air when I’d forgotten the last few weeks. But every book I picked up was as substantial as onion skin, without that magical spark that usually dragged me into a story until I forgot everything. And reading about feeling like my heart was put through the blender definitely paled in comparison to the real thing.
I slipped the record out of its sleeve and carefully positioned side two on the vintage record player Trixie had bought in Philly during her senior year. Bouncy 70’s guitar filled the room and I dropped onto my bed. Mom had stolen this Partridge Family album from Grandmom’s house and I had stolen it from the rec room record player.
David Cassidy started into a cheesy voiceover monologue about wanting to be wanted and being lonely and a wave of nausea rolled over me. If I was honest with myself, my pride hurt as much as, or more than, my heart. None of this would have happened if Em hadn’t told me about Dev. I could happily still have kept dreaming about Kris. From afar.
It was embarrassing enough I’d let myself get carried away like I did. Dev was probably laughing over the whole thing right now while cuddling with Lexie before his flight. A suffocated, overwhelming feeling rushed over me at the thought, but I forced in a deep breath and pulled myself together. I could be cold and heartless, like Marissa after Cyril disappeared. Or at least, I could work on not feeling anything.
I swiped the back of my sleeve across my face and coughed from my clenched throat. I needed to do something. Something that would channel these feelings out so I could keep going on. I stood and changed into one of the tight-fitting workout shirts and a slim fleece Trixie had bought for me to use in the winter when I’d complained about how it was hard to practice outside in a jacket.
Shooting things always made me feel better.
The Hidden House series book 1: Hidden PG 240
My sweater slips off my shoulder and I don’t bother to push it up. In fact, I’m glad I’m wearing it today. It’s bright red and bold and as non-Victorian as I can get. I pull myself up and stare at the back of the bathroom door, gathering the courage to go out there and confront Cyril.
He doesn’t want to fight for us, and if he really does still love Virginia—even though she’s been dead for over a hundred years—then I have to stop caring about him, too. I need to be strong and draw this line in the sand between us.
Especially since it’s like someone asks me to tear my own heart out of my chest every time I see him.
“Screw this,” I say to my bath towel and combs before opening my bathroom door.
Just as I cross into my room, though, the dried tussie-mussie catches my eye. I turn on my heel to grab the little Victorian-style bouquet, head back into the bathroom, slide up my window and screen, and throw it as hard as I can into the night. A little bowl of potpourri that mom had put in my bathroom follows, and then the dried rose I saved from the dance.