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“What is this?” He tips that bruised jaw at me. “Your stalker goth-reject costume?”
“Hey!” I draw back, the hood that was covering my dirty blonde hair falling off, making my hair spill all over my shoulders. “There is nothing wrong with my costume. It’s not even a costume. It’s a pair of jeans and a hoodie.”
“Since when do you wear jeans?”
“I wear jeans all the time.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I…” I purse my lips. “Why are you always so concerned about what I’m wearing? I’m wearing what I’m wearing. It’s none of your business what I’m wearing.”
I hate that he knows me so well.
I’m not a jeans kind of girl. I like dresses and skirts and summery things.
But what I hate the most is the fact that he so easily figured it out, that these are my stalker clothes. Dark and designed to conceal me. Not only so I could get away undetected from St. Mary’s but also because this is a party where people know me. And if people know me, then they also know what I did.
Two years ago.
And I’m not in the mood to be harassed about it, or made fun of or be laughed at or jeered at. Which is what they did back then. After everything happened, going to school was a nightmare and I have no inclination to repeat that experience tonight.
Hence my stalker, goth-reject costume.
“Now tell me about your bruise,” I order.
He doesn’t.
Because he’s… watching.
My strewn-about hair, specifically.
And he’s watching it in a way that makes me feel all exposed and self-conscious.
With his eyes all intense and heavy.
Almost in a daze.
I clear my throat then, unable to bear it, and he snaps his eyes away and brings them to my face. Then, “A bruise is a bruise. It’s none of your business how I got my bruise.”
Touché.
I lift my chin. “Well, I hope it hurts.”
“It does.”
“Good.”
“You need to —”
“Is that…” I fist my hands. “Is she… one of the girls his girlfriend?”
Oh God, please no.
Please don’t say yes.
I know I have no right to ask that. I have no right to feel this hurt in my chest. Especially when I did the same thing to him.
But God, it hurts.
