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I pick it up, this small, easy to hide, black flip phone and whisper, “Thank you. And it’s not a piece of shit.”
And then I smile.
A small, shaky smile.
Fragile as this new thing between us.
His gaze falls to my mouth and he stares at it.
The only pink thing on my body.
“Desert Rose,” I whisper.
He looks up. “What?”
“My lipstick shade,” I explain. “That’s what it’s called. Desert Rose.”
His eyes flash. “You didn’t wear lipstick. Back when you lived at the manor.”
“I didn’t,” I tell him. “I wasn’t into makeup and stuff.”
“Just books and words.”
I jerk out a nod. “Y-yes. But I… One of my friends here, she’s great with makeup and stuff. So she taught me and…”
“And what?”
Clutching the phone to my chest, I shrug. “I thought I needed it. Tonight.”
To look pretty for him.
For his ex-best friend.
“You didn’t.”
“What?”
His features tighten up and he commands. “It’s late. Come on.”
Much like earlier in the night, he starts walking then. But this time, he’s going to the brick wall; I know it. Because he wants to help me climb over. Because he knows I don’t know how to climb.
And unlike earlier in the night, I let him.
I don’t argue. I don’t fight.
All I do is feel thankful and safe.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
Before we moved to Bardstown, we had a difficult life.
While my parents always struggled to make ends meet, my dad’s accident was a big blow to our family. I watched my mother pick up the slack with two — sometimes even three — jobs, without any complaints. I watched my dad being frustrated about not being able to help. And sometimes I watched them argue and fight about these things.
So I did everything that I could to make their life easier.
I did my chores on time. I did my homework on time. I went to school and came straight back. I hardly ever hung out with friends because I knew I’d have to help out at home. I knew I’d have to make dinner or do the dishes or laundry or whatnot.
And I always prided myself on that.
