Page 78 of Not Your Little Girl Anymore

From my peripheral, I see Sam nod. She then pats me on the shoulder and pushes herself off the couch. “I guess it’s about time we do something about that.”

My eyes narrow. “We?”

Samantha’s mouth curves into a big smile.

Chapter Thirty

Summer

It’s a lot harder to keep track of time when your brain is mush, and your body refuses to allow you to get out of bed. At least, that’s my excuse for not getting out of bed.

As I open my eyes and stare at the closet door in Chloe’s room, I think about time and why we keep track of it to begin with. Every minute, every hour, every day that passes is exactly the same as before. The only difference is the sun sets and rises as the Earth spins.

Whoever invented time makes me angry. You either have too much time or not enough. There is simply no in-between. And right now, I don’t want any of it.

Birds are chirping right outside the window and the bright light peaks through the closed blinds as I lay snuggled up in the cozy sheets. My insides wallow themselves in self-pity, hating that this has been a routine of mine each time my eyes open.

It’ll get better, I keep reminding myself. But truthfully, I’m not certain it will.

A loud clash from outside the bedroom door startles me. My hand dashes underneath the pillow where I have the fully loaded gun. The safety is on. I made sure of that multiple times. I don’t pull the gun out from underneath the pillow, but I grip it like my life depends on it.

I’m not sure why I feel the need to hold it in my hands so tightly. It’s only ever Chloe and I here. But whatever the reason, feeling it makes me feel safer.

“Summer,” Chloe calls out before knocking on the door twice. “Are you decent?”

Sucking in air, I release the hold I have on the gun and bring both my hands to my head on top of the pillow. “Yeah.”

She swings the door open, popping a leg out with her hands on her hips. I leave my eyes on her closet, unable to focus on anything else. But I can still see Chloe shake her head from the corner of my eye.

She walks over to the bed, gripping the blanket in her hands, and rips them off me aggressively.

“What the fuck!” I yell. Aggravation is a new parallel to how I feel. Broken, bounded, and insecure.

Chloe approaches her dresser and begins to shuffle through her drawers. “You need to get up. I’ve allowed you to swallow yourself in my bed for the past two weeks. It’s time for you to get some sunlight.”

I watch as she aimlessly pulls out a shirt, examines it, and tosses it back in.

“I’m not feeling so well, Chlo.” That’s also not a complete lie either. It’s just not an illness that has taken a toll on me. It’s sadness, fear, agony even.

Chloe turns around, putting her hands back on her hips. It’s the arch of her eyebrow that catches my attention, causing me to perch up on the bed and sigh.

“You need to get out of the house,” she finally says after a quick staring contest. “Your skin is pale, and if you don’t brush your hair soon, we’ll have to cut that knot out and leave it out for the birds to tumble with.”

I almost laugh, but then I glance in the mirror behind her and cringe. “It is pretty bad, isn’t it?”

Chloe gives me a sad smile. “No judgment here, but we’re going out. We can have a couple of drinks, dance, and have some fun. After that, you can come back here and drown yourself in my sheets all over again. At least you’ll have some sort of human interaction for a couple of hours.”

“Have I got a choice?”

“Nope,” she says, popping the p and throwing a pair of clean shorts and a pretty floral blouse my way. “Get out of your slump and get your ass in the shower. You have two hours.”

I roll my eyes, snatch the clothes, and make my way into the bathroom. There’s very little energy left within me for any arguments. Plus, I know I can’t be bedridden for the rest of my life. It’s time I start making a change. A difference.

I need to start focusing on myself and figure out what I want to do with my life.

After cleaning up, I get dressed and thoroughly blow-dry my hair. Then, I head back into Chloe’s room. I stare at myself in the mirror, needing a good look. My eyes fall to my neck, remembering the pressure my father had on my throat. The bruising has subsided tremendously, barely visible unless pointed out, but I don’t risk it being noticed. I don’t want to answer questions that I’m not ready to answer.

Grabbing Chloe’s foundation, I spackle a little bit over the light yellow and gray, blending it up my neck and over my jawline. Chloe’s skin is slightly darker than mine, but I do my best to make it work.

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