Page 99 of Scars Like Wings

I never ever wanted to let go.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what, sweetness?” Quinn asked, glancing at me.

“You stop me from spiraling. It’s like you know when I do it. How?”

“Well, you have been quiet for a while, so I figured you were thinking about something. I also saw you clutching your necklace really hard.” At the mention of my grip around my mom’s pendant, I released it immediately. The corners had left indentations in my palm from my hold around the obsidian. I could also feel a cramp building. “Aside from that, I don’t know. I just get this feeling sometimes. Like, something tells me that I need to text you to make sure you are okay or I need to touch you. I can’t explain it. But I’m just, like, called to get rid of it? You have the same effect on me, too. No one calms me down when I’m anxious like you do, which is wild since we haven’t known each other that long. I don’t know, is that weird?”

“A little, but it’s the kind of weird I like.” I smiled.

“Good.” Quinn squeezed my hand. “I wish I could say it gets less weird and crazy from here, but you aren’t so lucky.”

If having your hand like this made me unlucky, I would walk under every ladder, break every mirror, and let a million black cats walk by me to give me the worst luck for an eternity.

Paper Rings

Vacations were the only time when I would do two things willingly: waking up from an alarm and getting up before the sun.

I rolled over and stopped the Taylor Swift song I had designated as my phone’s alarm tone. I settled my head back on the soft as hell pillow but kept my eyes open. The day outside bathed the bedroom around me in a dark periwinkle blue through the sheer white curtains in front of the balcony door. It made the day dreamy like an aesthetic post you see on Instagram or Pinterest. I just knew today was going to be a beautiful day.

It had already been an amazing weekend, and we were barely halfway through. I stretched my manicured fingers away from my pedicured toes under the posh sheets. After Quinn had landed and parked the jet yesterday morning—smoothly and all with one hand, might I add, since her other one was still gripped around mine—a driver had taken us to the Porcarola Resort. As soon as we exited the plane, I knew we were in Florida. There was, after all, only one place in the US that was both this wetandhot at the same time. The Porcarola Resort though was a posh experience meant to teleport you to a seaside town on the Italian Riviera. The decor was all marble, murals, Renaissance art,columns, and archways. It belted bougie like an opera performer right down to the welcome Puccini cocktail served in a glass by a freaking butler at the door.

Outside, there were colorful buildings on either side of the hotel part of the resort. Outdoor seating areas and Vespas added to the immersion. Everything faced a harbor with boats and a tiny dock. The smell of fresh pasta and baked bread, along with the music in the air, really took you to Italy, even if the humid heat and the unforgiving Florida sun kept you grounded in the states.

Another butler had taken our bags upstairs to ourpenthouse suiteon the topmost floor, decked out for my birthday with balloons, glitter, confetti, streamers, and another magicked banner. But before I could marvel at the shiny pastel decorations, Nat had declared that we had an appointment to keep if Quinn wanted to spoil me like she had planned. When I looked at her questioningly, she had just given me a slow smile that honestly made me weak in the knees.

The spoiling in question was a full jam-packed spa day. Everyone participated, even the boys. Well, especially Cody, who actually had a regular spa day once a month where he got a facial and a mani-pedi. We all chattered excitedly as we walked in the door, and we continued that same vibe throughout the appointment. I’m sure if the cousins and my besties weren’t there, I would have felt insecure. I was, after all, a plus-sized black woman. Spas have always felt like something only rich skinny white women living in Beverly Hills or onReal Housewivesget to do. I had seen so many of them get to be pampered and taken care of, allowed not to worry. I had never seen my mom, Aunt Max, or other black women in media get that same privilege. We weren’t allowed to relax. Even getting our hair done felt more like a chore or something to be checked off a list than a relaxing experience.

From the moment I walked into the spa, though, I felt comfort and tranquility. They had a robe in my size, Simone’s size, and even bigger than that. There were women of various shapes, sizes, and races working and enjoying the spa. They were all friendly and welcoming, and I didn’t feel any worry.

I got to enjoy the mud bath and steam shower. I met peace that day as every single nugget of stress was rubbed out of my shoulders and hands. Honestly, after the treatments, I felt like my whole body was traded in for a new, fresher model that had that new baby smell. Even getting my nails done for the first time in years by an actual person rather than Maisie’s magic proved to be absolute Nirvana. Probably because I was on my fifth glass of wine at that point, but it was still luxurious. The academic navy blue with gold accents that Quinn had picked out was beautiful, and anything on me had ever looked this good. After the spa, we walked around and did some shopping at the resort ahead of a beautiful dinner with fireworks. It was all spectacular. I don’t think any of us ever stopped smiling the entire day and night. Already, this was the best trip of my life.

My girlfriend had outdone herself.

Wait, had I just called Quinn my girlfriend?

I sat up in the bed at the thought. Where had that come from? We hadn’t discussed that. I mean, we had only known each other for a few weeks. Yeah, we were lesbians, but there wasn’t a U-Haul in sight right now.Gods, here I go again.This was why I had made that promise after the party. I always presumed we were all on the same page, assumed the next step and that everyone was ready, and then I ended up with my heart broken while listening to Olivia Rodrigo and drowning my sorrows in gallons of Blue Bell ice cream. Didn’t this mean I was making the same mistake I always did?

No.

This was different.

How many women that I talked to had gone this far for my birthday? Who had gifted me anything or even planned out a date?

How manygirlfriendshad done all of this just to make me happy? Gone out of their way to hold my hand? Knew how to save me from an anxiety attack with the simplest action? Could make me melt with just a glance? Had I had instant attraction to?

How many girlfriends had made me feel like Quinn did?

Just the mere idea of Quinn drove me wild. She had come out of nowhere, and I hadn’t been able to forget her since. I don’t think she had been able to get me out of her mind, either. Who plans a birthday weekend for someone they plan on ghosting? Especially one this lavish? It was obvious Quinn cared. She liked me. Maybe even… Well, I at least knew shereallyliked me. I know I had sworn not to fall any further for Quinn, but I couldn’t help it. I was always inclined toward love. I hated, in romance movies and books, when the protagonist could just turn their back on love and be miserable. That wasn’t me. I had promised not to love the idea of Quinn, but she had become so material in my life that the thought of never seeing her, being around her again, made my heart ache painfully in my chest.

I liked Quinn Garcia. Like a lot.

And maybe—just maybe—she liked me back?

Enough to make it official?

One step at a time, Brydgette Pierce,I thought.

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