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I want him to know me.
I want to crumble in his arms and let down every one of my defenses. To admit how terrified I am. About school and Grandma and my parents. And everything.
"How's that?" His breath warms my ear.
My knees knock together.
My sex cries out for attention.
My heart too.
Please, someone, somewhere. Please let me have him. I'm losing everything else. I just want this one little thing.
I force myself to turn toward the mirror. The backpack is cute and comfortable. But— "Pink? Really?"
"Pink is perfect for you."
"It's impractical."
"Then explain this." He holds up my dainty pink purse.
"Purses are supposed to be cute. Backpacks are utility."
"What about that bright blue Jansport with lyrics all over it?"
"You used to complain that I put too much pop music on it."
His eyes light up as he smiles. "If you'd just put something by The Dead Kennedys."
"How about The Smiths?"
"I'm not wearing eyeliner no matter how many times you ask."
I laugh and blush at the same time. Mmmm. Brendon in eyeliner. What a beautiful mental image. "How about Garbage or Hole? Something angry with instruments I can hear?"
He gives me a slow once over. "Why do you scribble lyrics on everything?"
I look up into his eyes. "Why do you
have ink everywhere?"
"I asked first."
"I guess, I want to make it mine."
"But it's someone else's words."
"But when I put them together, they feel like mine. Besides, did you ever hear of someone getting lyrics they wrote as a tattoo?"
"Yeah."
"Really?"
"I did them once."
"Name. Dropper."
He shrugs, playing coy. "A huge pop star known for how much she hates her exes."
