I cut my fingers into my hair and grip braids and barrettes, hoping they might ground me somehow. Then, I formulate something akin to a list of supporting points in favor oftherapy. “You’ve been hurt, so you have trust issues. You would otherwise not take much convincing to consider me as a life partner; therefore, therapy seems a valid next step.”
“Bold assessment,” she drawls.
“Is it inaccurate?”
She turns, kicking her legs off my bed and giving me her back. “I’d take a ton of convincing. It’s a woman’s right to be wooed, and if you wouldn’t put in that kind of effort just becauseI’ve confessed that you’re physically my type, you’d make a horrible life partner.”
Say the word, Morana, and I willwoo.
Breath leaves me. “So that’s anoto therapy?”
“It seems stupid to go to therapy because of one little blip in an otherwise pretty perfect life. I have parents who love me, a great cast of siblings, a comfortable home, financial stability.” Her fists clench, and she hits my bed. “I’m juststupid.” Tears dampen her eyes when she throws a glare back at me. “Make me trust you. Somehow. Figure out how to do that, and I’ll fall in love with you.” She stands, gathering up all the hair things she brought in earlier. Muttering down at them, she says, “Also—” She rises with the stuff in her arms. “—this was an excuse.”
“An excuse?”
“To touch you.”
With that rocking my wee tired cranium, she whirls around, and leaves my room.
Chapter 7
?
Late night visitors are prohibited.
Morana
To touch you.
Why did I say that?
Do I hate myself or something?
Did I get swept up in all the frank honesty Kyran offers without pretense?
Did I go mad?
Probably. Definitely. Surely.
Huffing, I take my time rearranging my reward store while this afternoon haunts me to no end. The cardboard building patchworked over with shopfront photos I found and printed boasts many little pockets. In those pockets, my reward cards live, prices relating to their placement on the skyscraper.
Ever since Maelin moved out, I’ve let my garbage infiltrate the rest of what was our house, so my entire motivation system covers the dining room table like a tiny city. Tasks live in a slew of cardboard housefronts, each themed after specific rooms in the Bachelor palace. My store is, of course, the central skyscraper. And then I have my bank, where I put the teeny tiny slips of money I’ve made.
On the whole, it’s juvenile.
And messy.
And stupid.
Just like me.
My nose wrinkles when I come across the FrostPlays plushie I want to get ordered. It costs five hundred points, because itcosts several hundred dollars, and logic dictates that I need to work for the privilege of taking out a second mortgage to get it. As though I’ve taken out a first. And as though working hard for the privilege of spending a lot of money is ever exactlymotivating.
Realistically, it will take time to work up to this many points, which means I’ll get to save more paychecks.
But.
Realistically, I should throw this prize away along with the other things I’ve lost interest in. That’s what I’m doing right now, after all. Sorting through my store, freshening up the prizes, deleting old whims.
