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Fuck him.
Fuck everyone.
I knew it was unreasonable to feel this way about my friend. But I hated the way he looked at Grace; I hated the way she looked back at him. There was chemistry between them, and I could pretend it wasn’t there all I wanted.
I knew what would happen next.
The reason Grace and I broke up would be the same reason that Noah would go running to her:
She needed someone. She was a black widow tangled in her own web of drama, and Noah would feel the need to go save her.
He would, too. He’d ride in on his white horse and rescue her, listen to all of her problems that she chose to focus on, and fight her demons for her.
But as soon as she didn’t need saving, they’d break up.
I knew it was going to happen; I’d seen it time and time again.
I knew my best friend.
I stormed into my room, flopped onto my bed, and checked my phone.
Messages from Mea and Spoken showed up on the screen, saying how great the show was and all that, but I scrolled past them.
No new messages from Grace.
I sank into the white sheets with relief, but with a stronger sensation of disappointment.
My face hurt. My fist hurt. My ego hurt.
But most of all, my chest hurt.
I didn’t want to talk to anyone or do anything. I just wanted to stop hurting.
Maybe taking a shower would help…
I pressed myself off the bed, but my eyes locked onto something unusual.
Something electric blue smeared across the blank canvas of my sheets.
“What the fuck?” I traced the smears and smudges of sapphire smattering across the wrinkled white landscape.
I launched off the bed, trying to make sense of it. Then my eye went to my hands.
My knuckles were raw, stinging with pain, and covered in blue ink.
“The fuck?” I hissed, looking over my hands.
The blue line bled across my hands, snaking across my skin in rivulets and deepening in the creases.
Maybe Grace’s ex had a pocket full of pens or something? I must’ve punched that.
My shoulders sagged with relief as the explanation washed over me.
I couldn’t think of any other reason why my fists would look like I just beat the shit out of a fucking Smurf.
I entered the bathroom—almost all of it was glass and mirrors—but couldn’t bring myself to look up and face my reflection. I knew that asshole had decked me across the face, and I wouldn’t get to be an insufferable pretty boy for at least the next week or two.
Well, as much of an insufferable pretty boy.
