Page 31 of The Masks We Wear

“So you and Spencer?” I cut to the chase. I’m mentally exhausted now and want to get this over with.

I massage the muscles in my right shoulder, tilting my head when I hit the worst knot. I don’t want her to feel like it’s an interrogation, so I try to keep my face neutral, focusing on the ache radiating across the blade.

“N-no no. Nothing like that. We’re f-friends. Co-workers too.”

Hmm. Spencer works?

I vaguely wonder why either of them needs jobs with their parents’ financial status. Spencer’s dad is a doctor, and Remy’s owns a university.

“So you spend a lot of intimate time together?” I finally look at her directly in the eyes. I ignore the burn in my chest and the lack of moisture in my mouth. “Share a lot of things with each other?”

An odd sort of chortle shakes her body as she looks at Blaze again. She’s fidgeting now, gripping the hem of her orange sweater and straightening her posture.

I huff inwardly.Of course. Who doesn’t have a crush on Blaze.

Remy swallows hard, eyes fixed on a spot on my bedspread. “No. Not r-really. I mean, I tell him loads of things, and we talk about-t school stuff all the time. But we aren’t intimate.”

I grace her with a sympathetic smile. She doesn’t know anything. The irrational jealousy I had dissipates but leaves an unwelcome warmth in my chest.

“Blaze is going to take you home now.” I stand, walking toward my door. The girl doesn’t respond and instead stares at him, eyes as big as golf balls.

I stop when I reach my friend, placing a hand on his still folded arms. “Take my car.”

He nods, leaning forward to kiss my cheek. “I’ll be back soon and fix your eye.”

When I look back, it’s not to look at the girl, but at the dark house in my backyard. The light in Spencer’s room flickers to life, and I can’t help but wonder.

Do I really want to win this game of Chess?

Is it worth what I’ll lose?

In the end, it is because you can’t lose what you never had.

THIRTEEN

Ispend my entire Sunday in bed, with the worst hangover of my life. Back in Idaho, I drank my fair share with William, but this is fucking hell on steroids. Whatever I had was poison wrapped in a bow. My entire body aches, and every time I move, the tendons quiver as if they’re about to tear. The headache pulsing in between my temples has been going non-stop, making sleep damn near impossible. And the amount of times I’ve thrown up now is pretty concerning.

Leaning over the bed, I take the aspirin my dad so graciously left on my side table with a heaping dose of a lecture. Afterward, he told me not to bother my mother and let her rest. And while I feel like shit, a hole expands in my chest at not being able to see the one person who can make me feel better. Mom makes the best fucking soup, and I know talking to her would ease some of this pain echoing in my sternum. She’d tell me that everyone does dumb shit when they’re fucked up and then make me wash my mouth out again for licking a boot.

I don’t remember it at all, but that didn’t stop the videos and pictures that found their way back to me. Remy has a social media presence to keep up with all the popular authors she likes to read, but on her feed this morning, there I was.

Half-naked, damn near on my knees, licking Lily’s boot like it was a fucking ice cream cone.

When I squeeze my eyes closed, I see it. When I look at my hands or my chest, I see it. She’s somehow ingrained herself into everything, and I begin to wonder if I’ll ever get rid of her.

If I’ll ever be able to forget her.

My head squeezes around the thought, and I groan, pulling a pillow over my face.

What the fuck am I going to do?

I could always expose her, embarrass her the way she’s hell-bent on doing to me. But I don’t want to start more shit or stoop that low. Whatever fucking tantrum she’s having will pass, and soon enough, she’ll find someone else to bother.

A vibration grabs my attention. It’s Remy, calling for the seventh time. I sigh and answer, tapping the speakerphone button and putting it a foot away from my face.

“What’s up, Remy?”

“I’m pretty sure this is what death is. This is what it feels like when he’s at your door, fiddling with your strings, wondering which one to cut.” Her voice is low, hoarse, and I can feel her sickness in my stomach.

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