And yet.
Sorry.
I can’t mistake the sincerity in that word. I can’t shake the look that followed, when the act had fallen and his eyes had gone soft, concerned. He was Lex in that moment, but my heart wasstillpounding.
I tap my fist against my head. “This isn’t a romance. This isn’t fiction.” If it were, there’s no chance I’d ever be the lead. There’s no chance I’d ever end up with someone like Lex.
My chest pinches at the thought, and perhaps that’s more telling than anything else. Opening my eyes, I stare at the dirty linoleum and trace the strange little pink flowers decorating it.
That’s right.
How could I forget?
This is a fluke. People like me don’t play—or want to play—the lead role. People like me just work hard toward mediocrity and land somewhere among the millions. People like me end up used by those in positions of power over us, then, unceremoniously, people like me are thrown away.
In the moment when we cease to be useful, we lose everything.
In the moment someone else can take our role, we are cut from the script.
Lex
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blue eyes. Blond hair. Soft, pale skin shades lighter than mine.
I stare at the ceiling, replaying the way Calypso’s single tear fell down her cheek, caught light, and hung in a perfect droplet at her chin before she turned and ran away. I keep picturing how it may have died. Did she wipe it away the moment her back was to me? Did it fall into the grass, onto her clothes? Did her braid touch it and steal it away to let it dry in her hair?
My stomach clenches, and I knot a hand in my shirt against my abdomen.
Calypso has large eyes, flawlessly blue and bright, like a mountain pond reflecting sky and sun. Shielded behind glasses resting atop her little nose, they seem almost larger. Once, I may have considered something about her appearance somewhat plain. She doesn’t exactly stand out. Despite soft, attractive features, there’s an air about her that almost seems intentionally unoriginal. She wears the kinds of clothes that vanish into the ho-hum of everyone else. Plain jeans. A simple sweatshirt. Nothing form-fitting. Nothing flashy. All earth tones and invisible. No makeup defines her blue eyes or draws them to focus, and the shades of her clothes dull them to a gray—unless you’re staring straight at them.
Now, it strikes me that I’ve been fooled.
Calypso is beautiful.
Maybe the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.
It also strikes me that she tries very hardnotto be. She purposely hides; I knew that. I didn’t realize how deep it went. Is she aware how viciously she’s constructed herself, or was it an unconscious development?
I need to know.
I need to know more.
More about my little sugar glider who keeps everything stunning about her hidden in plain sight.
What else have I missed?
The fact she thought I was mocking her is all too clear; I didn’t miss that. The fact I am the one who made her cry a real tear also hasn’t been missed.
Why am I so stupid?
She isn’t like a piano or a puzzle or an art project. I don’t get to niggle my way into her like she’s a hobby for my own enjoyment. I don’t get to toy with her keys or shuffle up her pieces or splash paint just to see what will happen. She’s aperson. I haven’t bought her; I can’t. I’m literally just renting a living, breathing person for my brief amusement.
I can’t let this be painful for her. There isn’t enough money in the world to heal emotional wounds like that.
Catching the time on my bedside clock, I breathe a sigh and drag myself from the comforter.
Seven-thirty. Everyone has gone home or to their own rooms now, and Dad is locked in his study, overworking like it can possibly make any manner of difference.
