Page 36 of The Masks We Wear

Her lips pull into a straight line, and just when I think she’s going to be a smart-ass, she nods.

I take out the small remote from my backpack, turn the LED lights on to blue, and flip the room’s switch off. When my eyes adjust to the new color, I pull out my script as well as a notepad and pencil.

3:55

“Okay, I’m starting the timer now.” I keep my voice calm, trying to eradicate any form of emotion.

She doesn’t respond, tempting me to steal a glance, but I don’t. Instead, I focus on my phone, watching the numbers tick down.

The air around us thickens like it always does, and even forcing my breaths to become steady is hard. There’s been some type of shift, a palpable change, and it permeates the air, pulsing between us. Lily repositions in her seat a few times, letting me know she feels it too.

After what feels like a fucking eternity, the timer sounds, and my eyes lift to her.

She’s watching me—observing me as ifI’mthe fucking experiment. Looking back at the paper, I start to script. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Her voice is low, breathy, and my dick twitches defiantly.

“How was your day?” I continue reading.

This question is open-ended. If the person describes a shitty day without getting worked up, the blue is effectively altering how they perceived it. But it could also enhance feelings of sadness, causes them to be more emotional.

“Busy. Full of catching up on work and filling out college paperwork. How was your day?” Her tone remains impassive, and I bite back the need to veer off track, ask her what college she decided on.

When we were kids, there were no other options. We loved Washington and wanted to go to Solace. But I bet grown up Lily has other plans now. I ignore the heavy weight on my chest and continue. “It was fine. Found out I have a shit ton of tests the rest of this week, so there’s that. How are you feeling?”

She sighs deeply, and the little button keeping her chest covered nearly gives. I swallow around the memory of her in the treehouse, trying to sneak into my thoughts.

“Okay. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” I say truthfully. There’s so much shit I’m tired of that it’s hard to keep my eyes open anymore. The same stuff I used to tell Lily, and she would somehow make me a littlelesstired. She was the shot of espresso that kept me going. “If you could do anything right now, what would you do?”

Lily tilts her head, and her eyes narrow slightly. Her gaze slips from my face and drops down, slowly as though she’s already telling me with her eyes. When she looks back up, she bites into her lips, letting her words become heady. “You.”

My jaw clenches as every last drop of blood I have, travels south.

I wasn’t born yesterday, and I’m not stupid. Liliana used to want to be a psychologist, so what she’s doing right now is pretty fucking obvious. She wants a response. There’s a part of her that needs to know I still care.

But that’s something she’s not getting. She can take my little standing social status, reputation and even make my dick hard as hell. But she can’t have the power of knowing my heart doesn’t beat the same when she’s not around.

As fucked asthatshit sounds, there’s too much history, too many memories that Lily owns for me to forget—even with her lashing out.

Still, every time I see Lily, I realize how that girl I loved—the one I was willing to leave my mother in Idaho for, isn’t there anymore, and a piece of my heart returns to me.

My chest heaves. “I would sleep.”

Lily grimaces, fiddling with her bun, before looking back down at the paper. The last part of the script instructs us to say anything extra we’re feeling. It’s an optional part but will give me insight if the colors compel us to say anything.

The room is still, quiet—not even our breaths are audible as I wait. Finally, she looks up. “I don’t have anything else. Do you?”

“Not a thing.” The words rush out.

She stands, yanking her purse from the chair, and walks toward the door. She stops when she opens it, turning slightly. “Nothing I’ve done bothers you?”

Yes.“No.”

The tip of her smile is barely visible before she disappears, leaving the echo of her heels behind her.

THE RESTof my week is jam-packed—so much so that the whispers, stares, and slurs that follow me go completely unnoticed. Remy is the one who points them out the next day at lunch.

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