My lips tip with genuine amusement. “So, it does work.”
“S-shut up.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re mocking me.”
I lift a hand, linking a finger around the braid laying over her shoulder, across her chest, and draw it to my lips. I close my eyes, whispering against the soft sensation of her hair, which smells like a summer morning in the thick of spring—perfectly baffling. “I’m really not.”
She swats me away, her eyes huge when I look back up at her face. She grips her hair in both fists, bunching the braid between her clenched fingers. Her lips slightly part, but no words come out.
My smile falls, and my brows knit. I take a step back, dropping my act. “Sorry.”
When she blinks, a tear traces down her cheek, but she doesn’t make a show of it as she pushes past me and flees to the bus stop.
I watch her go until her swinging braid and her watering eyes are nothing more than a vivid memory, burning a hole in my chest.
Crap.
Calypso
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can hardly think. Every time I blink, Kenneth is right before me, a living, breathing, moving, independently-thinkingthing. My heart pounds, and my mouth goes dry.
Gasping, I stop myself just seconds before adding a tablespoon of salt instead of a teaspoon to the bowl. My small kitchen looms around me, empty. I swallow, getting the right measurement and dreading the silence. It isn’t a real silence. Not right now. Right now, my heart is hammering in my ears and the high-pitched squeal of electricity from the fridge is ever more defined. This full silence feels like it might crush me.
I shiver, add the salt to the mixing bowl, and stir up the dry ingredients.
I’m supposed to be at work right now—probably. I worked most Fridays after school, anyway, except I had my last day Monday. The vacancy opens a gaping hole in my chest, and a certain buzz of something beingoffruns over my skin. Instead of working, I’m making banana bread. Tiny loaves of banana bread.
The four little pans were tucked away in a slew of other baking supplies at a yard sale last month, and I couldn’t beat the fifty cent price, but I rarely had a chance to use them with school starting andeverythingelse. Now that I’m not working, will baking fill that void? Or am I just stressed with the idea of school, which connects tohim, so I’m trying to consume myself with anything else for a moment?
Adding the dry ingredients to the wet, I try to push the truth out of my mind, but it comes running through my skull with vengeance anyway.
I’m being avoidant.
I’m being avoidant because green eyes and teasing smiles are haunting me.
Don’t make me beg, Harriet.
How dare he.
Heat swells across my cheeks, burning my flesh, and I blame the preheating oven as I divide the batter into the pans and shove them inside. Sitting in the nook against the fridge and cabinets just beside the oven, I draw my legs up to my chest and find a braid.Thebraid.
The one he touched,kissed.
Why am I so stupid?
Kenneth doesn’t exist. It was just Lex messing with me, pulling off a character effortlessly and flawlessly. Is he laughing at me behind my back now? Did he see me cry before I ran away?
After all, how stupid is it to be in love with a fictional character “written” by our teacher?
After all, how stupid would it be for me to write a male lead who I’m not absolutely in love with for a romance?
I bury my face in my hands. He was making fun of me or taking advantage of me. I should have guessed this was where things would end up. Deals with people like him never turn out well, but the people like him make them look so appealing. It’s almost impossible to refuse.
What am I really going to do at this point? The contract is so superficial it hurts. It’s not like I can actually take him to court and tell a judge that I want compensation because he’s making fun of me. It would cost more just to make it so far. No doubt he knows my hands are tied.
