Page 54

The photo was uploaded yesterday morning, but it might as well have been a lifetime ago. The girl who stormed into my shower today didn’t have a trace of happiness in her soul. And once again, thoughts of Meg naked, trembling, and wet are consuming my thoughts. Rolling a joint, I decide I’m going to need something stronger than sheer will to rid her from my mind.

The hallway is quiet when I slip out, running a hand over my scruffy hair and careful not to dislodge the joint tucked behind my ear. Outside, the academy has that post-storm hush clinging to it, everyone still hiding inside the warm safety of their rooms. The silence irks me, so I push my headphones in. There’s a faint trickle of rain, gently pattering against the pavement stretching ahead. I remain beneath the building’s ledge, lighting up and shrinking back into the shadows.

The first drag burns my throat, settling in my chest with an air of calm. Finally. I lean against the brick and tip my head back. This is the reprieve I’ve been searching for, although smoking is always my last resort. For the most part, I try to ease myself with art, music, or Everest first, not in any particular order. To have a vice is to be owned by something else. Yet tonight, it’s a necessary one.

I smoke until the cherry dulls, until my body stops feeling like something is slithering beneath my skin, until the image of Meg under hot water fades just enough for me to trust myself to return to my room and hopefully get some sleep. Yet, that very naïve thought is shattered when I drag my feet up the stairs and breach the top hallway to see a figure standing outside my door. For a second, I think I’m hallucinating from too much smoke, too little food, and an unhealthy amount of emotional incompetence. But no, Meg is really there, haunting me once again.

Her hair is dry now, loose around her shoulders. She’s wearing a tiny pajama set. Her eyes lift when she notices me, blazing with a fury that throws me completely off balance. What happened to the soothing of her rigid spine and the kneading of her tense shoulders earlier? Fuck, did I imagine the whole thing?

Meg storms straight up to me, all bare legs, satin, and fury, and I have the ridiculous notion to take a step backwards. Somehow, I manage to stay grounded, my face donning the nonchalant expression I hide behind.

“You’re not even in there?!” she seethes, folding her arms. Her eyes narrow at the sight of me, headphones in my ears, an off-white T-shirt and stained gray sweats that probably smell like rain and smoke. I can’t decide which sarcastic remark to make, but remembering it would infuriate her more if I didn’t answer at all, I keep my lips pressed together.

Instead, I drag my gaze over her face, taking in the shadows under her eyes, the tension around her mouth, the way her arms are locked tightly over her dusty-pink satin blouse. It’s cute, and at complete odds with the anger twisting her facial features. An anger that is covering the jittering edge of exhaustion, the kind that comes when nightmares have chased someone out of their own bed. I know that feeling all too well, and perhaps that’s why I decide I’m not going to create another conflict with Meg tonight.

Shedding my headphones and stepping forward, I unlock my door to push it open.

“Excuse me? I’m talking to you. You can’t just leave your music blaring if you’re⁠—”

“Shh,” I hold up a hand, shutting my eyes for a second. I can’t think when she’s going off at me, never mind get a word in. I’m used to actions, whether they be to pleasure or harm me. The whole open communication thing I’ve had very little practice in. At Meg’s small noise of indignation, I spare her a quick glance. If looks could kill, I’d have been disintegrated on the spot.

“Did you just shush me?” Her nostrils flare dangerously. I step inside my room before a smile breaks free, and gesture for her to join me. Meg’s anger quickly gives way to something akin to pure horror. Large blue eyes dart around my space, from the covered canvas on the easel to the mess of paint on the desk, hunting for evidence of herself. She wouldn’t have to look too hard, but nothing obvious is on display. I’ve learned my lesson on that front.

“Are you insane?! No, I’m not⁠—”

“Shh,” I repeat, just because I want to see the cute little flare of her nostrils again. Wait, no, not cute. Annoying and silly. Even so, I motion for her to enter again. Rock music is pounding against the walls, rattling a shelf of jars and acting as a barrier for anyone thinking of stepping inside, but Meg does just that.

Tentatively, her foot crosses the threshold, the expression on her face seeming as irritated with herself as she is with me. I track her all the way to my bed, where she perches on the edge of the mattress, her chin held high and eyes on me at all times.

Does she think I’m going to finish what we started in the shower, my hand wrapped about her throat as I shove her back and claim the body she was so willing to let me admire? The thought isn’t as repulsive as I’d expected, but for all my sins, I’m not a hypocrite. I lost my shit when Everest fucked her, and despite it being years later, I’ve never truly forgiven him.

“Your music is obnoxious,” Meg almost yells, her palms pressing against her thighs. “And before you say anything, yes, I know that’s the point. It’s still obnoxious.” I don’t bother arguing, she’s right. Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, I reach for the controller and flick the music off. A sudden silence rings through the room like a bell struck too hard, leaving my ears ringing.

I hesitate for only a moment before I push the door closed, leaving us in darkness until I switch on the lamp. Warm light catches on paint tubes, glass jars, and Meg’s panicked face. She instantly looks for the stack of canvases behind the door, finding that I’ve removed them from plain view. If she really wants to see them again, she’ll have to dig around under the bed she’s sitting on.

For a brief moment, I simply lean against the wall and watch her. This isn’t the same Meg as was in the shower. No, this one looks haunted like she’s crawled out of the group therapy sessions back at the clinic, and contrary to expectations, I don’t feel any sense of accomplishment at that. In fact, it’s the first instance in which I’ve realized Meg is juggling as many personas as I am. A shiver rolls down her shoulders, her gaze hollowing out until she’s not even in this room anywhere. She’s adrift, lost in whatever reason she sought me out for a fight in the first place.

Eventually, I can’t just stare anymore. I can’t take the expression set into her features, this circles beneath her eyes, the melancholy and fear causing her to shrink smaller and smaller before me. Crossing the room, I kick off my sneakers and dig through the drawer beside my bed. The metal tin is exactly where I left it. Rectangular and dented at the corner, with paint smudged over the lid. Sitting beside her, the mattress dips but Meg doesn’t even react. I suppose I’m going to have to work on that communication thing after all.

“Trouble sleeping?” I ask. Meg’s eyes roll so hard, I’m surprised they don’t roll straight out of her skull. A tiny smile tries to nudge its way free of my pressed lips. Merely a week ago, her sass irritated the fuck out of me. Now, I’m kinda in awe of it. What the hell changed, and more importantly, what the hell is wrong with me? Maybe Nicholas’ latest beating knocked something loose in my head.

Proceeding to open the tin, I reveal a neat row of colored discs and a few thin, worn brushes. The familiar sight settles me immediately. Liz gave me this tin in my first year. She knew the counseling sessions were doing nothing for me and offered an alternative. Back then, I didn’t have any tattoos to color in. I simply doodled on my arms, covering my scars until I liked what I saw, and opted to have it made permanent.

“Here.” I take one of the brushes and offer it to Meg. Her hollowed-out attention drops to the brush, suspicion immediately pulling at her brows. Another smile wants to arise and I quickly decide I haven’t smoked enough. I’m not nearly as numb as I need to be for this interaction.

Reaching behind my neck, I catch the back of my T-shirt and pull it over my head. The cool air hits my chest, and Meg’s stare joins it a moment later. She fails to pull her gaze away, and I can’t even lie to myself that it feels kinda nice.

I’m used to being gawked at by influential people who traipsed through Calloway Manor for every event, function, gala and excuse to flaunt their wealth. Needless to say, I was the odd one out. Thankfully, once Everest left for Hollowbrook, I was relieved from attending said events, since Nicholas didn’t have to fear that Everest and I were sneaking off to make out in a cupboard somewhere.

But being gawked at by Meg is different. She doesn’t know my backstory. She doesn’t know the bruises that have lined every inch of my body, the bones that have been broken and reformed by sheer vengeance. She’s simply taking me at surface value, her eyes roaming over the ridges of my abs and outlines of my tattoos with nothing but curiosity. The expression on her face is open, simply observing and accepting the man sitting before her.

We sit there for so long, it’s me who becomes fidgety first. Turning slightly, I offer her the part of my arm where roses and skulls climb over my bicep in clean outlines.

“Go on,” I insist gruffly, offering out the metal tin. “It’s body paint. It helps me when I can’t sleep.” Meg blinks several times before accepting the brush between her fingers, suspicion still riding her hard. I’m fighting my own battle of awareness, so I balance the tin onto my thigh. This is stupid. I shouldn’t be inviting Meg O’Connor, of all people, to touch me in my bedroom after spending the entire evening obsessing over the fact I touched her in the shower. But the alternative is sending her back to her room with nightmares still crawling around behind her eyes, and for some reason, I just can’t seem to do that.

“You let just anyone do this?” Meg asks, arching a brow. It’s a loaded question. I don’t want Meg to know that no one, not even Everest, has painted my skin before, but I also can’t have her thinking I’m some sort of clown for children’s parties or some shit.

“No.” As soon as the word leaves me, Meg’s hand stills. An uncomfortable stir happens beneath my ribs, but thankfully, the moment passes quickly as Meg dips the brush into red.