Page 52 of The Art of Us

In shock, Ireland dropped the lipstick tube as if it had bitten her and then made shushing sounds at the tube clattering on the floor as if she could somehow call back the noise.

Mara.Mara was the mystery lipstick writer.

“Did not see that coming,” Ireland muttered before wincing because Mara’s room was right next door. She really had to stop talking to herself.

She stared at Mara’s door. Mara? How could it be Mara who was broken? Mara who was howling at the uncaring moon? How could it be when Mara was also a shrew? The leader of the hag and harpy?

And what could Ireland do about the information she now had? She put the lipstick back in the case and tucked it back under the sink. She flipped off the light, hung the towel back on the rod, and eased the door on her side closed again.

Then Ireland paced. And paced. And paced.

Mara. The mystery writer was Mara. What could be so out of place in Mara’s perfect life that she could call herself broken? Mara was the girl everyone wanted to be. EvenIrelandwanted to be Mara—a little bit, anyway. “This is ten degrees of the worst ever thing to happen.” She allowed the muttering since there were now two doors and a bathroom between her and Mara. She needed to mutter. Needed to process out loud. Honestly, the household was lucky she hadn’t resorted to shouting yet. “Whatto do? What to do? What to do?” She couldn’t help Mara with anything. Mara wouldn’t even want her help if she knew it was Ireland on the other end of these messages.What to do?

“Get a snack. Yeah. Get a snack.” Ireland always thought better when she had a full stomach. And maybe she’d watch something on the Washington family’s many streaming services so she could calm the erratic beating of her heart. Then she would be calm and know what to do.

The house was quiet as Ireland crept to the kitchen, her feet making soft taps against the stone-tiled floor.

Grace and Jarrod had insisted that the kitchen was open to her anytime she needed it, as long as she cleaned up after herself and didn’t take something that somebody else had made for a specific purpose. Even so, guilt gnawed at Ireland’s insides. When she turned the corner to pass through the living room and into the kitchen, she was surprised to find the light from the gas fireplace on and a shadowed silhouette sitting on the couch. Probably Grace, reading again. Ireland would have turned around to go back, but there was no way to hide the fact that she had been there. She hadn’t beenthatquiet.

Rather than look as guilty as she felt, Ireland decided to face the situation directly, so she rounded the couch to greet Grace and maybe chat for a few moments before getting her snack. Granted, there would be no watching TV, but the snack was still a good idea. Ireland stopped short when she found Mara sitting there instead.

“Hey,” Ireland said since she didn’t know what else she could say.

Howling at the uncaring moon.

“Hey.” Mara stared into the flickering flames. Her tone flat. Her body curled into itself as she hugged her knees to her chest.

Ireland considered leaving her alone so that she could do whatever it was she was doing.

Someone broke my mirror.

Ireland stopped midway into turning and swiveled back. “You okay?”

“Sure. Okay like Santa Clause on a cookie-free diet or my mom cooking dinner.”

“So not okay?”

Mara’s dark eyes were suddenly glassy. Holy brick to the head. Was Mara going to cry?

“What’s going on?” Ireland sat on the recliner next to the couch. She waited for Mara to say “Boundaries” in her snotty elitist voice while also declaring them not friends. But Mara didn’t say boundaries. She didn’t declare them not friends.

“Am I okay?” Mara repeated. “I’m perfect. Everyone says so. There goes Mara Washington. Isn’t she perfect? Perfect clothes. Perfect hair. Perfect car. Perfect grades. Perfect family. Just perfect.”

Ireland wanted to snort in derision while declaring, “I get the point.” Except Mara was the mystery lipstick writer. Except tears were now slipping down Mara’s face.

She sniffed. “Please ignore the perfect monster boyfriend, everyone.”

Wait. What? Ireland straightened. “Wait. Rowan?”

Mara laughed, though the sound was more alarming than humorous. She finally tilted her head to look at Ireland. “Evenyoudon’t believe it, and I’m pretty sure you’re the only girl in the school who doesn’t wish I would walk into traffic so they could have a shot at him. I mean, you might want me to walk into traffic, but not because of him.”

“I legitimately don’t want a shot at him. The guy is hair-in-the-drain gross—no offense, and yes, I say that fully knowing that I was being offensive. And I don’t want you to walk into traffic either.”

“Rowan attacked me.” Mara whispered it as if trying the wordsout loud for the first time and frowned at the unexpected nature of the way it sounded.

Ireland’s extremities went cold with this revelation. “He ra—”

“No!” Mara hurried to interrupt. “Not that. Not for lack of trying though. I fought him off. I don’t know how it happened. We were just kissing, and then ... it was something else. When I shoved him away and got out of the car, he shouted some really terrible things at me. He left me. In the woods. Alone. What kind of slithering snake does that?”

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