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Ever since she came back to my life, I’ve been so angry and pissed off, and a million other indefinable emotions, that I failed to notice just how much she’s grown up.
In a way, she’s still the same Nicole who made every male’s head turn in her direction. The Nicole who left a cloud of cherry perfume behind her—the scent boys jerked off to in their lonely showers.
The Nicole who called every one of those sorry cunts gross, and other colorful synonyms for even attempting to breathe near her.
But then again, she’s not the same. She’s more reserved now, more introverted than extroverted.
And she’s ten times prettier than she was eleven years ago. Her curves are that of a woman and her face has matured with age.
She stopped hiding the tiny beauty mole above the left corner of her lip with makeup. Every fashion magazine considers that a sign of beauty, but for Nicole, it was an unwelcome disturbance of her flawless face.
I always liked it, though. That small distinction made her perfectly imperfect. Prior to when she hid it like her life depended on the fact.
Before I realize it, I’m reaching out for her face, for that small imperfection that she’s finally embracing.
The moment my fingers connect with it, she jerks, her wide eyes meeting mine.
“Why do you no longer hide this?” I ask, ignoring her disgust with me and the squeezing in my chest that I’m promptly chalking up to being half-drunk.
“Why…why are you touching me?”
I don’t know either. Could be the alcohol or the way she grinned or the fact that she’s even in my vicinity again when she shouldn’t be.
It’s over.
I erased her from my life.
I fucking got over her.
So why does she think she can walk back in and set each of my barriers on fire?
“Answer the question, Nicole. You started hiding this as soon as you hit puberty. Why do you no longer do it?”
“How do you even know that?”
“I just do. For the last time, answer the fucking question.”
“Because I used to feel self-conscious about it.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“I don’t really care now.”
A heavy silence falls between us as I glide my index finger over the tiny beauty mark and accidentally—or not really—brush against her upper lip.
My skin refuses to leave hers, refuses to part from the warmth mixed with tremors.
So I don’t.
Like an addict, I continue sniffing the forbidden powder.
Nicole inhales stuttering breaths, her lips parting.
“What happened after you left?” The question leaves me before I can stop it.
I’ll blame that on the alcohol, too, even though I usually hold my liquor like a sailor.
Her compliant albeit confused expression disappears and a fire ignites in her eyes.
