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Something intense.
“H-how do you know that?” I ask.
He hates the question but still replies, “Google.”
He Googled wallflower?
He did, didn’t he?
God, he did.
And… and he wants me to let him go.
He wants me to not hug him.
He’s crazy.
My thorn is crazy.
Squeezing my arms around his waist again, I whisper, “You were alone. When your mom died. You could’ve been… with someone.”
With the woman you love.
His jaw clenches. “I didn’t need anyone. I don’t need anyone.”
“Everyone needs someone.”
“I don’t,” he says, his expression stubborn, almost like a little boy’s. “I never have.”
I fist the back of his sweater and press my body to his, fully aware that he’s not touching me at all. He’s not hugging me back. His hands are fisted at his sides.
“It’s not fair,” I say.
“What’s not fair?”
“That you had to give up so many things.”
I expect a surface answer at this. I expect him to brush off my concern, but he doesn’t.
He studies me first, my upturned face, my loose hair. My necklaces, even the art on my shoulders. He takes it all in before coming back up to my face and saying, “It’s my fault.”
I freeze for a second.
Unable to comprehend what he’s saying.
Unable to understand why he would say that, and maybe he can see the confusion on my face because he goes on to explain, his navy blue eyes boring into mine, “All the things that I wanted, all the things that I dreamed about for myself were out of reach. They were out of my league. I tried to be more than who I was. I tried to reach for the stars: soccer, a rich princess of a girlfriend. I knew stories like that didn’t end well. I knew that. Especially for someone like me. Someone who was born on the wrong side of the tracks. Someone who didn’t have a lot to begin with. But I wanted it all anyway. I dreamed about them anyway. So if I had to give it all up, if my dreams are broken, then it’s no one’s fault but mine.”
My heart squeezes then.
It squeezes and squeezes and I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know how to process this.
Is that what he thinks? That his dreams are broken and that it’s his fault.
That he has no right to dream.
That’s bullshit.
That’s fucking bullshit.
I squeeze my arms around his body again, with as much pressure as I’m feeling in my own heart as I say, “That’s not true, okay? That is absolutely not true. This is your life and you can dream. You should dream. You should —”
“You’d mentioned that you needed my help,” he says abruptly, cutting me off.
“What?”
He moves his jaw back and forth as if mulling it over. “That day at the library. You said that you needed my help with your art. Your college applications, portfolio, whatever.”
A few moments pass as I try to make sense of where this is going.
Where did this even come from?
Then he adds in something else. “I might have some time. Next week.” Then, “Probably next Saturday.”
I move my eyes over his sharp face, his beautiful features as I finally make sense of what he’s doing. He’s talking about the painting thing that I so completely thrust out of my mind.
And maybe he’s doing that to distract me from what we were talking about before.
But I see that even if I want to go back to it, he won’t let me, so I say, “To let me…To let me draw you?”
“Yes.”
“Because of my college applications.”
His eyes drop to my lips. “For your college applications.”
That’s when I realize something else too.
That my dress, my jewelry, my body art aren’t the only things he’s seeing for the first time. There’s also something else.
On my lips.
My lipstick.
My pink lipstick called Pink and Shameless.
Something that I completely forgot about. My mother always wanted me to wear lipstick and make-up, and while I still don’t wear make-up, I have gotten into wearing lipstick. Courtesy of Poe. Which my mother is always happy to see when I go back home.
And this lipstick gives me an idea.
The fact that he’s staring at it.
So I stretch myself up on my tiptoes and press up against his body even more. His eyes snap up and I think he’s confused. There’s a frown between his brows and I think he’s about to say something but I don’t give him a chance. Before he can utter a word or take even a breath in, I kiss him.
On his jaw.
I press my lips against his smooth skin and leave a lipstick mark.
Like she did.
And even though it’s not a stain on his soul like I wanted it to be, I’ll take it.
I’ll take the perfect pink mark on his pretty jaw.
“It’s called Pink and Shameless. My lipstick. It’s my second favorite.”
His eyes flash at my words and his jaw clenches.
