Page 1 of Roses in Summer

I

Thorns

1

Seraphina

There’s no right or wrong way to deal with a breakup. For some people, I’m sure they’re able to remain friendly with their exes and have a cordial relationship that’s based on mutual respect. But for others like me, the only thing I want to do every time I see my ex-boyfriend is run away.

That’s probably how I ended up here, in a janitor’s closet during period changes. When I stepped out of my AP English class, I had every intent to head to the library for independent study. But somewhere between stepping into the hallway and hearing my stupid nickname called by Mitch, the ex in question, I ran.

Or, more accurately, I power walked to the nearest door and yanked it open, not caring to turn the lights on or survey my surroundings. As soon as the door was pulled closed, I belatedly realized I should be more concerned about my hiding place. Namely, does it lock from the outside, and if so, will I be stranded in here until someone else either tries to hide or otherwise opens the door?

Feeling along the cement wall, I search for a light switch, relieved when I find one not too far from the door. Flicking it on, I survey my surroundings and nod to myself once the brooms, cleaning supplies, and janitorial carts come into view.

“How long until the period bell rings?” I ask the antiseptic, not expecting a reply but voicing my question all the same. It’s been a lonely month at my small high school, not only because I’m a natural introvert and more prone to listening than speaking but also because of the disastrous breakup with Mitch.

When I first met Mitch Abernathy, I was flattered by his attention and proud to be the girl he chose to date. For the first six months of our relationship, I was in a bubble, a self-imposed, ignorant vortex that prevented me from seeing just how toxic and manipulative our relationship was. His edicts started out as small microforms of aggression that influenced whom I spoke to, how I dressed, and even how much I told my sisters and twin brother about our relationship.

When I first met Mitch, one of the popular football players from the wealthy side of town, my mind was on exploring who I was, kissing, and even sex. I was excited to experience adulthood, even with the knowledge that teen romances rarely make it in the real world. But Mitch had other ideas and expectations for me. Like a fool, I followed him and embraced his ideals and ideas of who I should be.

My casual T-shirts, wide-leg jeans, and leather skirts were replaced with Polo and Lululemon. My hair was long, like a veil, and I’d been encouraged to keep it that way. It felt like a weight hanging down my back, a constant reminder of who I belonged to.

I drifted along with Mitch’s wants and whims, contorting into a perfected version of myself, a version I hated because my boyfriend seemed to love it. And when he told me he loved me, I believed him. When I told him I loved him, I believed that too. At first, that love felt full, deliciously warm, and cozy. As one of four children, I’m used to being the forgotten sister, the minuscule one with not much to say. In my mind, being known as Mitch’s partner was a privilege.

When Mitch told me his expectations, that he believed in abstinence until marriage, part of me was shocked, especially because of rumors I heard about him before we started dating. I allowed his views—his expectations—to become mine. I allowed him to influence what I thought, said, and wanted until I became a false image of myself that even my parents couldn’t recognize.

Ending things with Mitch didn’t happen all at once; it took time. I stepped away once, twice, only to be reeled back in with promises of change and love bombing. Each time, I hated myself more. But this last time, when Mitch’s words and actions became too explosive for me to permit, I walked away.

For good.

Looking around the closet, my eyes catch on a broom leaning haphazardly against the wall, barely standing upright in the mess of a closet. For whatever reason, the broom’s position makes me think of my older sister, Ava, and the night I spent at Marymount last month. I can’t help the smile that tugs on my lips at the thoughts of that night, how nervous and excited I was to attend an infamous college party.

But almost as soon as we walked in, Ava had beer dumped all over her white shirt, leaving her practically naked in the crowded, humid house party. Her boyfriend—a person I had no idea even existed—brought her home, leaving me with their friends in a strange place. Rationally, I know that I could have gone with them, but it felt as though I would have been a third wheel, an unwelcome interloper in whatever conversation they needed to have.

Instead, I was handed off to Lincoln Simmons, the most attractive boy I had ever seen. Biting down on my lip, I can’t help the flush that takes over my cheeks at the memory of the startlingly bright-green eyes that contrast with his light-brown skin, the tattoos that circled his neck and every inch of his exposed arms, and the smirk that seemed to say, “I know I look fucking good.”

In a word, he was beautiful. Stunning, even.

Is it weird to call a man beautiful? I’m not sure another adjective would suffice to explain his high cheekbones, long lashes, and the almost feral look in his eyes. Call it insecurity or stupidity, but for some reason, I expected Lincoln’s personality to be the antithesis of his looks because there’s no way God made a man that beautiful and nice. But I was wrong.

Yes, Lincoln is a sarcastic, cocky pain in the ass, but he’s also kind and sweet and considerate. He made sure to bring me back to my sister’s dorm and stayed the night, talking and laughing and just being. I’ve never experienced that level of comfort with anyone, certainly not with Mitch, who expected me to be some kind of Stepford wife in training.

But it’s not just Lincoln’s looks and personality that set my world into chaos, it was the kiss. Closing my eyes, I lean my head against the door, transporting myself back to my sister’s dorm room and the game of twenty questions that took a turn I never expected.

“Do you think they have any games?” he muses, taking in the fairy lights along the wall and the beds piled high with pillows.

“I brought Banana Grams,” I admit before I think better of it.

“A banana?”

Like a child, I giggle, eliciting an eye roll from Lincoln. “No. It’s called ‘Banana Grams.’ It’s similar to Scrabble, but instead of using a board, you make your own formation from little tiles.”

“Do all the words have to be English?”

I pause at that, considering my response. “Well, no, I guess not. But I wouldn’t know if you were making up a word if you said it was another language.” Tilting my head, I peer over at him. “What other language do you speak?”

“My mom’s from Poland, so I grew up going to Polish school on the weekends and speaking it with her and that side of my family. I also speak a little German and Russian.”

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