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Zac: Back the fuck up. YOU’RE getting a piercing? Who are you and what have you done to Love?
Love: Dork.
Zac: Don’t call me that.
Love: What are you, the dork police?
Zac: You’re never going to let this one go, are you?
Love: Not a chance.
Love: I’m not getting a piercing, just accompanying her. Although she’ll probably try and convince me otherwise. Talk later?
Zac: You betcha. Don’t do anything stupid.
Love: I won’t.
* * *
The next day
Love: So… I did something stupid.
Zac: You didn’t.
Love: I did.
Zac: Not falling for it.
Love: Honest to god.
Zac: So… you’re too chicken to tell me who you are, but you’re cool with a three-inch needle puncturing your skin? Bullshit.
Love: I know it sounds crazy but my best friend was hyping me up and I’ve always wanted one. Plus, I can’t remember the last time I did something just for me. So, I thought fuck it and did it.
Zac: I’m afraid I’m going to need some proof of this alleged piercing.
I go back and forth with myself for thirty minutes, only to come to the conclusion that a little picture never killed anybody. As long as he doesn’t see my face, it should be fine…
Right?
I create a fake Snapchat account—before my better judgment can try reasoning with the reckless person these new piercings have made of me—and send him a screenshot of my username.
Love: Add me.
An invite from @TheDorkPolice pops on my screen a minute later. I snort out a laugh and accept his request with trembling fingers.
I slip out of my long-sleeve, tossing it onto my bed next to me. I’m wearing a tank top underneath and no bra. I took the torture device off the second I got home from my shift at the library.
I spend the next half hour taking pictures and deleting them. Another five minutes wondering if I should send a picture at all. This isn’t like me—the piercing, the semi-provocative picture. None of this is like me, but hey… neither was spilling my darkest secrets to a stranger in a book, so, safe to say people change?
Zac: Can’t believe I made a whole ass snapchat account just to get a picture of your belly button.
Zac: You’ve got me wrapped around your fucking pinky, you know that?
My mouth stretches with a devilish grin as I skim through my camera roll, searching for the perfect shot. I set the picture’s timer at four seconds. Then I send it, topping it off with a text that reads “Who said anything about my belly button?”
The picture shows a faceless, braless Aveena lying in bed in a thin tank top, the glass of ice water on my nightstand visible in the background. But the real focal points are the outlines of my tight, pierced nipples peeking through the fabric.
