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My heartbeat calms.
I’m okay. Everything’s okay.
I take my time standing. Dust and debris cling to my clothes, my skin. With reluctance I raise my shaking hand and touch my lip. Pain has me wincing and sends me into action.
Clean up the mess, Violet. This is probably your fault, Violet. You get what you deserve, Violet.
It’s my mother’s words that haunt me. They’re the angry ranting of a woman who never found fault in her own wrong doings.
There's a small half bathroom just outside the busy kitchen and I stumble right to it before anyone can see me. I close myself in there with a slow shutter of a breath.
I will not cry over Kylie. I will not cry over the mean things that insecure people do to me. I am stronger than this.
My sight in the mirror is a sad reflection. My hair is a frizzy, blonde mess from tossing around in the closet. I’m covered with sheetrock dust and my face is red with blood. I keep my expression serious as I talk to myself.
You’re stronger than this.
You’re fine.
Life has been worse. Much worse.
I nod once then I dab away the blood on my split lip. The dust easily wipes away leaving my clean skin behind red and blotchy. The split lip stings under the light pressure of my fingers. I ignore the pain and comb through my long hair.
It’s like it never happened. No one has to know that it did.
I'm fine.
Swallowing the last tiny remainder of my pride, I exit the bathroom and turn the corner.
Only to run face first into the reason I was even wandering around this terrible party.
Landon sways lightly as we collide, his warm body pressing me against the wall almost instinctively. “Dee?” Big hands settle on my hips as he holds me in place with every part of him including his broad chest and narrow hips.
He smells worse than he looks and he looks absolutely terrible. Though I’m probably not one to talk at the moment since I just ate floorboard like a dad eats hot dogs on the Fourth of July.
He’s not as good at partying as his friends.
He’s the good one of the three.
Or at least, he was.
“Hey," he whispers and that clipped word lingers between the small amount of space that separates my body from his. It feels empty and I don't know why I feel the need to explain even more to him. I've always talked to him. Always.
Until now.
"I’m just going to see if my room is free yet.” I want to step past him but his wide frame seems to fill every space around me.
The dim lighting only highlights the conflicted look of his dark eyes beneath his shining frames. Some remnants of sadness flash across his handsome face. The urge to reach up and cup his cheek runs through me.
And suddenly I feel bad for my tormentor. I want to ask him if he is okay.
No. I refuse.
That's completely ridiculous.
“What do you want? Thinking about writing me some more love notes in my textbook?”
“I– I’m...” For a single second I think he’ll apologize, his body heating mine, his eyes reflecting that heat so much it sinks right into me. “What happened to your lip?”
