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Brendon: Spending the night at Walker's place. I'll be home late.
I can still see that look on his face. Like I stabbed him in the gut.
I need to fix this.
But how do I convince him I'm worth trusting again?
That I did it because I want all of him—especially those parts he won't show anyone. Especially the parts he thinks are ugly. Especially the secrets.
I need to prove I can be that person. The one who really sees him. That really lets him see me.
But the thought of confessing that sends shredded wheat back up my throat.
I can barely admit it to myself, much less to him. I have episodes. Where I think about hurting myself. About making everything stop.
I can't even use the word.
It's too ugly.
It scares me.
It will terrify him.
And then...
He might leave.
I want him to know the truth.
I want to be like Ariel, strong enough to sing my fucking heart out.
Strong enough to go after what I want.
To show off my scars.
My secrets.
I'm not ready yet. But I can get there.
I can let him in. Or at least try. Or start to try.
I rush to my bedroom. Pore over my journal for just the right thing. Not a poem. Not a story. An entry. One about him. One that shows off something ugly, something I can stand him knowing.
It takes half an hour, but I find it.
I tear the pages out. Grab a silver Sharpie. Sign my name with an I'm sorry and slide it under his bedroom door.
That's something.
I just hope it's enough.
* * *
I'm halfway through my almond butter and jelly sandwich when my cell starts buzzing. Dammit. I'm going to have to come up with a lie, a believable lie, if I want Emma to drop this.
But it's not a text from Emma.
It's my mom.
