The guys are gossiping about Halloween parties like a bunch of girls, and my shoulder’s fucking burning like a bitch. I shower and get dressed slowly. The locker room empties around me.
Stanley leaves last. I sit at my stall for a minute after he’s gone. Then I get up, sling my bag over my good shoulder, and walk through the rink corridor. I push through the back door into the lot. It’s a new week. The first Monday of November, and I feel it in the air.
Stanley has no fucking clue who he’s even talking to. If he did, he would know that I don’t talk. Talking to her is the last thing I want to do. But somehow he’s right about it.
He doesn’t know that I’ve been quiet for years, refusing to acknowledge her existence.
He doesn’t know that I’ve changed everything about myself. Where I live, who I hang out with, my habits, the food I eat, and the remaining constant is somehow stillher.
I hate to give it to him, but he’s right.
I should talk to her.
Chapter 13
Melly
Mila:Ineedanotherstudy group night. Anyone in?
Penelope:Yes! We can do it at my place.
Me:Wednesday? I’ll bake the cookies.
Mila:Gianna? Lucy? Mara? Are you guys in the chat?
Gianna:Here. Sorry, I’ve been so busy, but yes, count me in!
Mara:Idk if I’ll make it.
Lucy:Yes! I might come a little late.
Gianna:My brother can let you go for one freaking evening.
Lucy:I’ll be at my mom’s. I go every Wednesday.
Gianna:Forgot. Sorry.
Lucy:I’ll be there after dinner.
Mila:It’s a plan.
I stare at my phone, feeling like I’m missing something. I huff, knowing what it is. Me and Chase would text nonstopwhen I moved here, and I still haven’t gotten any texts from him. We haven’t spoken, and I feel so much guilt towards the relationship. The silence from him solidifies that he knew this was the plan all along. I don’t regret breaking up with him. The only thing I regret is waiting so long. He became a comfort blanket and the one person who made me feel like I was good enough.
I can’t remember half of the night on Halloween, but whatever happened at the Hawthorne House stays at the Hawthorne House. I saw the list of rules on the whiteboard, and I can’t disagree with it.
When I step out of my bedroom, Penelope is on the ground doing Pilates.
“I started like two minutes ago. Hop in.”
I question whether or not I should, and then I’m like, “You know what? Yes.”
She pauses the video and runs to her room for another mat. She runs back, and she presses play. I roll it out next to her and follow along.
Twenty minutes of agony, I exhale.
“How’s your Tuesday going?” she asks.
I sit on the mat in a stretch. “Could be better. Yours?”
