by Celeste, B.
She’s been telling me that for two days now, after catching me play with the locks of purple or seeing my reflection in the mirror. It’s not bad, just … different. I don’t look like me anymore. Steph makes me her plaything every morning, putting makeup on me—more than my usual foundation. Unlike the first time she made me up, I sport the famous winged liner she loves so much.
Mason Combs is definitely the perfect match for Steph. He mellows out her crazy, especially when she tries dragging me out to clubs every night. Well, the past two anyway. Something tells me he won’t be able to stop her if she keeps insisting I “let loose” by dancing my heart out. Steph doesn’t give up, which is unfortunate because she knows I can’t dance to save my life. I have two left feet.
But Steph likes to get her way, and I think Mason knows that. It’s why she chooses what to eat every night and picks what movie to torture him with. He never argues, unless Indian food or Dirty Dancing are the selections.
Like tonight.
“Babe, you know I can’t eat that.” He’s sitting on their suede couch with an arm draped across the top while Steph goes through her takeout menus. “What if we cooked?”
That doesn’t seem to suit Steph. “Are you kidding? We can’t cook to save our lives. Do you remember when you tried making me dinner for our one month anniversary?”
My eyes bounce to Mason. “What happened?”
He starts laughing. “I set the toaster on fire trying to make her toast. She loves breakfast, so I thought breakfast for dinner would be romantic. Eggs, toast, pancakes, the works. Instead, I almost burnt down our place.”
A giggle escapes my lips. “That is kind of romantic. You know, the thought. I wish someone would burn toast for me.”
Steph throws a menu at me. “Edible toast is better, but I digress.” She tosses the Indian takeout brochure to the side. “Okay, what about pizza? We can’t hate on pizza.”
Pizza does sound good right now, but Mason tells Steph that he has a shirtless scene to shoot tomorrow.
Steph picks up her cell and hops onto the counter. “Well River and I don’t, so I guess you’ll be eating a salad while we indulge in greasy, cheesy goodness. Won’t we, River?”
Mason frowns at his girlfriend. “You’re an evil, evil woman.”
Steph blows him an air kiss. “But you can’t get enough of me. If you’re a good boy when the pizza arrives, I’ll breathe near you so you can get a good whiff of all those yummy carbs.” She turns to me. “Aren’t you glad we’re not actresses? All those body restrictions and diets would kill us.”
Me without sugar is a bad idea. It’s like Bridgette without tea or Robert without coffee—nobody needs to see that. The thought of them makes me frown.
Steph misinterprets my sullen expression. “Don’t worry, Riv. We don’t need all the drama that comes with acting anyway. Working on set around B-listers makes me realize what kind of bullets I’ve missed. Remember when I wanted to be one? Or a model? I mean … I’d have to stop eating cake. It just wasn’t meant to be.”
Her outburst makes me laugh. She wanted to be a model when we were sixteen when one of the girls in our grade got some catalog gig at the mall, where she was featured in local ads and magazines for a homegrown clothing company. She tried dieting to lose weight that, in my opinion, she didn’t need to lose, but her mom wouldn’t let her keep starving herself for some ridiculous dream. It hurt Steph’s feelings until she started eating her much beloved desserts again. All was forgiven and she moved on with the next dream. I think she wanted to be a pastry chef.
After the pizza arrives, Steph puts on Sixteen Candles and tells Mason that Michael Schoeffling is on her free pass list, which Mason explains means that Steph can sleep with him without repercussions of Mason breaking up with her if she ever meets the celebrity. Steph tells me his is Anna Kendrick, who apparently, is also on her list.
It doesn’t surprise me.
My nose scrunches. “Isn’t Michael Schoeffling old now?”
“He’s not even sixty,” she argues quickly, smacking Mason when he chuckles. “Dolly Parton is on Mason’s list! I mean, come on!”
Mason gives me a well, duh expression, his lips pressed flat together. “Can you blame me? Her tits are huge.”
Steph shakes her head. “They’re also fake. At least hold out for someone with natural boobs the size of your face. I imagine they’re more fun to play with.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck over their conversation. “Can we maybe change the subject?”
“Fine,” Mason relents. “Who’s on your list, River? Tell us about all your freaky fantasies.”
Steph laughs. “Do you still have a crush on James Marsters? I totally wouldn’t judge you because that man is a silver fox now.”
Mason’s eyes narrow inquisitively. “Is that the dude from Buffy?”
“Spike!” Steph chirps with a nod.
He scoffs, stabbing the last piece of lettuce in his chef salad. “At least it’s not Robert Pattinson. I mean, real vampires don’t sparkle. That’s fucking boring.”
Steph pokes Mason’s knee from where she sits next to him on the floor. “I bet if Dolly played a sparkling vampire you’d love it.”
He grumbles something under his breath that I can’t understand.
Steph turns to me. “He’s just bitter because I made him watch Remember Me without giving him any warning.”
That makes him speak up. “I’m just saying, a little warning would be nice! I swear you watch the most depressing movies, woman. Like the time you made me watch Marley and Me. You’re a sadist.”
Steph and I both laugh while he shakes his head and collects our empty plates. My stomach is full, and the movie is nearly over, so I grab my phone and text my parents to let them know I’m all right and that I’ll probably head to bed soon. It makes them feel better when I update them every night.
Just as I’m setting my phone down, Steph snatches it up and opens the camera app. Shuffling closer to me she flips the camera screen to selfie mode and fluffs her hair.
Nudging my shoulder, she smiles into the camera. “Say cheese, River. We need to show off your hair and prove to the haters that they can’t stop us from having fun.”
Frowning, I glance at her. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I don’t want to feed their hate. Let’s face it, Steph. They’re not wrong to call me out on anything.”
Her playful expression turns grim and serious, eyes narrowing to slits like I’m about to be scolded by my mother. “Nobody deserves to be treated the way they’re treating you. Do you understand me? They’re petty bitches who have nothing better to do than spew hate.”
I don’t say anything.
“But,” she relents, “I’ll only post this to my Instagram account. We don’t have many friends in common, and nobody appreciates drama on there. So, smile already.”
Rolling my eyes, I wrap a strand of hair around my finger and nervously turn to the phone. Forcing a smile on my face, Steph smushes her cheek against mine and makes a silly face, sticking her tongue out. It makes me laugh, which is when she takes the picture.
I admit, it’s cute. We look carefree like we did when we were younger, and our only worry was what we’d have to eat at the school cafeteria. She sends herself the picture and then plays around with filters on her Instagram page. Whatever she chooses makes my hair look more lilac than lavender.
She shows me the final product, only captioning it with What’s happenin’ hot stuff? before posting it to her ten thousand followers.
Not even a minute later, she squeaks and shows me her phone. “Look! It’s already got thirty likes and people are saying how much they like your hair! And, wait—” Her eyes squint as she reads a comment. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“What name?”
“Peter York.” She clicks on his username, which brings it to his profile. “Hey, isn’t this one of your brother’s friends? They played basketball together, right?”
Insp
ecting the image, I shudder. I remember him all right. Whenever Oliver would have game days, he would wander around the house. If I was doing homework at the dining room table he would bother me and ask a million questions until one of the others told him to leave me alone. Usually, that was Everett. But sometimes Tommy and Quinn would step in when I was too nervous to speak up for myself.
“What did he say?” Part of me doesn’t really want to know, but someone who used to hang out with Oliver and Everett would probably have something to say about the little scandal in Bridgeport.
Grinning, she wiggles her eyebrows at me, which always freaks me out. “He said you look hot with purple hair. Oh! He commented again.” Her smile instantly disappears, but she tries hiding it before I notice.
“What?” I whisper.
She waves her hand in the air. “It’s nothing important. You know how guys are—”
I take her phone and read his new comment, sucking in a sharp breath when my eyes scroll over the lewd statement.
Send her my way when Tucker is done with her. You know, unless she’s only into unavailable men.
Steph quickly takes her phone and deletes the comment. Giving me a sympathetic look, she squeezes my arm. “Hey, don’t listen to that asshole. I sort of remember people saying what a douche he was in school. I guess he never changed. I mean, it’s no wonder he’s single!”
It doesn’t help me feel any better, but I force a sad smile anyway. “I’m getting kind of tired. I think I ate too much. Mind if I go to bed?”
Her shoulders drop. “Sure. See you tomorrow, River. We’ll grab some pastries before I have to go to work. Okay?”
I nod before telling Mason goodnight and slipping into the darkness of my room.
What did I expect to happen? Until something bigger comes along, I’ll be the topic everybody talks about no matter how far away I am from home.
Curling up onto my side, I think about Bridgette and Robert—Mom and Dad. I fall asleep with tears rolling down my cheeks.
35
Everett / 27
Isabel’s office is littered with blueprints of clothing designs, colorful fabrics, and bags of feathers and buttons I imagine will wind up on some sort of outfit. The bright pink and white walls match her perfectly, just like the lime green armchairs in the corner of the room. I’m not sure who designed the office, but it seems like it was made for her.
The secretary right outside the elevator doors must know who I am because she perks up instantly and tells me Isabel’s finishing up a meeting down the hall. The young black-haired woman directs me to Isabel’s office, which I’ve been to a few times when she first started, and find myself looking at her personal items.
There’s a picture of her and her mother from high school graduation, both wearing big smiles and black dresses. Next to that is her parents, their smiles neither big nor reaching their eyes. Hanging above those in a silver frame is a picture of us. My arm is wrapped around Issy’s waist and she’s tucked into my side. One of her hands is resting on my pec and her pink painted lips are stretched into a big smile as I look to my right. Almost as if I’m staring at her but …
“That was my favorite picture of us.”
Her voice startles me from going back to the day it was taken. Turning with my hands in my pockets, I watch her walk into her office with folders tucked in her arms.
The heels of her stilettos click against the floor as she walks around her white desk, setting the folders down in front of where her chair is positioned in the middle.
“Was?” I question, strolling to the chair across from her. I don’t sit. Not yet.
She laughs coolly. “Like it’s a surprise that it’s not?” She shakes her head, pulling out her seat and sitting. Her eyes go to the one behind me, so I take it as an invitation and settle into the firm cushion.
“I suppose you’re right, given the circumstances,” I agree quietly.
She huffs, rolling her eyes at me. I shouldn’t be surprised that she doesn’t look different. Her makeup is done in full and her white dress is tight and pristine. She’s professional, not showing one ounce of emotion.
“It’s not for reasons that you think,” she murmurs, typing something on her phone. She taps it a few times before turning it to me. It’s the same picture that’s framed. “Do you see what I see? A happy couple? Two people in love? I remember that day so well, Rhett. We were at a fourth of July party at the James’s house. Robert was grilling and you offered to help but he wouldn’t let you. People were swimming, Oliver was off flirting with who knows what girl. I asked Bridgette to take a picture of us before lunch was ready. When I saw the picture, my heart felt so full because you were looking at me with such … love.”
Her eyes trail to her phone screen for a moment, her smile disappearing when she clicks a few more things until a different image pops up. “Stephanie Malone posted this picture the day before I confronted River. It was some lame throwback Thursday post I nearly skipped over. Recognize it? It’s the same moment Bridgette was taking the picture of us at the barbecue. I didn’t pay it much attention until I realized that your eyes weren’t focused on me in this picture. They’re looking at River. Funny how perspective can really change things, huh? She was, what—seventeen here? Eighteen? Stephanie didn’t even realize what bag of worms she was opening when she posted this picture of little miss perfect River James. But it made me open my eyes for the first time.”
“Issy …”
She holds up her hand. “You came here to talk, so let’s talk. Let’s talk about how long you’ve been in love with your best friend’s little sister. Let’s chat about all the feelings you’ve had for her when you were inside me. Were you picturing her every time you made me come? Every time you fucked me?”
Cringing over her words, I shake my head. “It wasn’t like that.”
“I bet not,” she retorts, lips twitching before returning to their flat position. “I’m sure that’s why you had to find out what it was really like to be inside her, right? Because I couldn’t do it for you. Maybe I never really had.”
“Jesus, Isabel. That’s not—”
“No,” she growls. “I’m talking.”
I shut up.
She sets her phone down. “You know, I think I’ve always known. I was fucking jealous of a fourteen-year-old and you made me feel stupid for it. Maybe you didn’t love her then, but it wasn’t long after when you realized that what you felt was more than just protectiveness for Oliver’s helpless sister.”
I’m not sure what to say, if she even wants me to say anything. Her eyes go to the picture on the wall and she sighs. “Your eyes were so bright, so warm in that picture. When I look in them, my heart used to feel all fuzzy knowing I made you look lost in the stars.”
My tongue weighs heavy in my mouth, forcing me to keep quiet.
“After I saw that other photo, everything started making sense. You have a snow globe that River gave you in your office, and pictures of you two together in your apartment. In our apartment. There are so many memories of you two that you display for the world to see, Everett. Why not me? Huh? There’s nothing in your office to remind you of me. Your apartment barely has anything of us besides the furniture I brought in. But everywhere I turned when I was packing my things was River. Between the receipt I found for the charm and the picture … I just … I lost it. I have always wanted you to look at me the way you look at her.
“And you know the saddest part? When I confronted River that day, I didn’t realize just how far you two had gone. Sure, I accused her of it, but I never would have thought either of you would cross that line. I knew there were emotions, feelings, but it wasn’t until you told me how sorry you were that I realized you legitimately cheated on me.”
Scrubbing a palm over my rough stubble, I try finding the words. There are so many ways to apologize, but none of them would fix this. Nothing can. They’re just words. Even though I mean them, actions are the only way to make this right.
&nb
sp; “You’re right, Issy. I took things too far and nothing I can say will make it okay.”
She crosses her arms on her chest. “It looks like we finally agree on something.”
My eyes capture something on her finger. “Why are you wearing your grandmother’s engagement ring?”
She holds out her hand and snickers at the piece of expensive jewelry hugging her slim, tan finger. “Honestly? I wore it to freak out your little side-piece and just liked having it on. It reminded me of everything I’ve ever wanted.”
I’m on high alert, scooting forward in the seat. “What did you tell River, Isabel?”
Her brows lift. “She didn’t tell you?”
“We haven’t spoken.”
Interest washes over her face. “My, my. That makes me feel good. It was probably the news about our baby that did it.”
I choke on air. “What the hell are you talking about? Our …” My eyes trail to her stomach, which is hidden under her desk. “Are you telling me you’re—”
She eyes me hard. “If I were pregnant, I would have told you sooner. I’m a bitch, not a monster. Think about it, Everett. I would have used that as a reason to get you to put this ring on me for real.”
So why the hell would she say anything about the baby we lost? Does she not care anymore? Does that not fucking destroy her like it does me?
Not a monster, my ass. “How could you bring up our unborn child to her? That’s seriously screwed up.”
“You don’t get to judge me,” she snaps.
“Don’t I?”
She leans forward, fierceness flaming in her dark eyes. “You messed up first, buddy. I acted out of anger and I’m justified. Why should I care what she thinks? All I wanted was for her to feel as humiliated and destroyed as me.”
I lose it then. “But you’re not destroyed for the same reason! Face it, Issy. We don’t love each other. You didn’t want me to marry you because I was the one.”
“Don’t you dare—”
I gesture between us. “This is why we never were going to work out. Our relationship was so fucked up. We hurt each other. We fight. We use each other. It’s not healthy. It’s not what either of us needs.”