Page 102 of Picture Perfect

Addy

The warmth of Saint's fingers lingers on mine as he hands me the brown paper bag, the scent of bacon and egg mingling with his cologne. We pause outside my first-period class, and I can't help but notice the way his dark curls fall into his eyes, eyes that have seen too much for his eighteen years.

"Thanks for breakfast," I murmur, clutching the bag close like a talisman against the day ahead.

"Anything for you, Princess." His voice is low, a rumble that reverberates through me.

Then, almost shyly, Saint leans down—and his lips meet mine in a kiss that's soft and tentative, so unlike the hard lines of his life. It's a contrast that tugs at something deep within me, and I'm left reeling from the gentle touch of someone who's anything but gentle by nature.

He gives me one last look that promises more—more kisses, more lies, I can't tell which—before he turns and disappears down the hall, moving with a purpose that leaves whispers fluttering in his wake.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but before I can step into the classroom, Sera and Penelope are upon me, their manicured claws outstretched. They’re on me like vultures, their eyes wide with a hunger for gossip.

"Adelaide Winthrop," Sera drawls, her red lips curving into a predatory smile. "Spill. Every delicious detail."

Penelope leans in. "We saw that little exchange. Since when do you and Saint do... public displays of affection?"

Their piercing gazes dissect me, looking for juicy morsels of scandal they can peck apart. I feel exposed under their scrutiny, caught between the desire to confide and the need to protect what little privacy I have left.

"Since now, apparently," I reply, keeping my voice light, though it trembles slightly. "It's not a big deal."

"Of course, it's a big deal," Penelope insists, her blue eyes flickering with the thrill of gossip. "Barrett Saint, giving you breakfast and kisses? You're the talk of the school."

Sera nods, her face alight with a ghoulish glee. "Everyone's dying to know—are you two an item now?"

Their curiosity is like a vise, squeezing the truth that I'm not ready to share. Saint's past, his pain, it’s not theirs to feast upon.

"Maybe we are," I say, deflecting with a noncommittal shrug. "But since when did my love life become public property?"

"Since always," they chorus, their laughter tinkling like glass about to shatter.

With a roll of my eyes, I push past them into the classroom, the echo of Saint's footsteps still haunting the corridor of my mind.

Sera leans against the desk, her eyes narrowing as she latches onto my last comment. "But Preston... he's more your style, Addy. You know, if you're finished dumpster diving with Saint."

"Isn't that a bit harsh?" I counter, but there's no heat in my voice. It’s hard to feel the sting when it’s not the first time they've cast Saint aside like yesterday's gossip.

"Reality often is," Penelope chimes in, her words edged with an acidic smile. "Preston might not take you back after this little... escapade."

"Take me back?" The words are bitter on my tongue, tasting of old times I'd rather forget. "I'm not some object to be passed around. And who says I want Preston back?"

They share a look—a silent conversation I'm not privy to—before Sera straightens up. "You can't seriously think you and Saint have a future.”

I lean back against the cool surface of a desk, crossing my arms over my chest in defense against their prying. My brow raises in question as I wait for her to continue spewing her bullshit.

"Sure, he's different," Penelope snipes, her words laced with disbelief. "I mean he's hot as hell and dangerous too. But come on, Addy. He's not long term. Preston is like high school royalty."

“He's nouveau riche at best, and that's only by association."

"Saint's worth isn't measured by his bank account," I snap, feeling a surge of protectiveness for the boy who's shown me so much more than these superficial judgments allow.

"Maybe not," Penelope concedes with a shrug, "but prestige matters here. And let's be honest, they aren't even in the same league."

"Maybe I don't care about leagues," I say, my voice quiet but firm. I lock eyes with each of them in turn, hoping they'll see the resolve in my gaze. "Maybe... just maybe, I care about the person."

Their laughter is hollow, echoing off the classroom walls and underscoring the distance between us. It’s clear they don’t understand, and maybe they never will. But as I sit down at my desk, pulling out my textbook, I find I don’t need them to. It’s not like we were ever really friends.

It's not like they actually care about me and my feelings, they care about appearances. And while I was happy to go along with things for the sake of survival, I'm finding that I just don't have it in me anymore.

---