Page 65 of A Heart of Bluestone

Tonight, I make it in one piece.

Courtney isn’t far behind me.

I don’t need to look up at the door as she comes in.

I recognise that it’s her by the uneven weight in her steps, the thick clock of her cheap boots, and the paper rustle of her yellow marshmallow puffer jacket.

Crouched at the bottom drawer of my dresser, I rustle through plastic and paper wrappings. “I’ve got a croissant,” I start, but there is doubt in my tone because this croissant has been flattened sometime in the one and a half months since senior year began, “a plait au chocolat,” I add, then riffle through the packaging at the back of the drawer, “and these tins of quinoa and tuna.”

“Salt and vinegar crisps,” she sighs with a frosty breath.

I look over my shoulder as she tugs off her gloves, those ghastly things with the smiley faces. “You don’t want something more filling than that?”

She shakes her head, mousy strands falling into her pinkish face. Whatever bothers her tonight, she won’t speak about it. She never does.

I toss a packet and it lands on the foot of her bed.

I pick out a different dinner for myself. A can of quinoa and rice, sugared almonds, handful of pistachios, and a bag of popcorn.

Before I can even lay out my haul on the comforter draped over my bed, Courtney has disappeared into hers and closed the curtains.

My mouth puckers as I eye up the pulled-over drapes.

It might be midnight, but it’s also Friday night, and it’s the moments like these I miss having friends. True friends. The ones who laugh and play and gossip and—

I rub the ache that blooms in my chest.

With a sigh, I start on my makeshift dinner.

Doesn’t hit the spot, but I didn’t expect it to.

And when I’ve worked my way through the rice and the nuts, I pick at the popcorn, the bag rustling with the occasional invasion of my hand, and I read through the latest edition of Italian Vogue that Mother mailed to me.

Sleep isn’t ready for me yet.

So the red sting of my eyes isn’t fatigue.

I rub the balls of my palms against my eyes and swallow down the thickness of my throat. Sometimes, as much as I loathe it, I do allow myself to indulge—and feel a bit sorry for myself.

Falling back on the pillows, I cross my arms over my face and let my lashes shut on dampness.

I ache for them.

The way it once was.

The pain of that first day they turned on me, it carries with me, it sticks to the inside of my gut like hot toffee, it’s a thick honey slicking down my twisting heart.

I don’t let myself dwell on it often. It only upsets me. But this year already, it’s been forcing its way into my mind more and more.

But nights like these, the memory crawls back into my mind. It snares around my brain like foreign fingers and talons scraping over me.

I hate my fucking life.

I hate it so much, because it would have been perfect if my magic hadn’t failed me. And I never saw it coming.

I should have.

Even as a child, the clues were there. Not only that I was a deadblood, but that the others would turn on me once it was confirmed.

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