Page 99 of Jax
Bellamy tossed me fuzzy socks with glitter skulls. “Put these on and take a shot of whipped cream like a grown woman.”
“You people are emotionally unwell.”
“Duh,” Maddy said, popping the cork and letting it rocket into the living room. “Why do you think we do this?”
And then, God help me, I laughed. Actually laughed.
The rebellion was officially underway.
Pajama time arrived without warning. One moment, we were high on frosting and brownie batter. The next, Maddy strutted out like a war goddess on sabbatical, pink silk robe, angry cat socks, glitter face mask shimmering like weaponized unicorn snot. She wore it like armor. Regal. Terrifying.
Bellamy gave a slow nod. “We wear pink. On every day ending in Y.”
“No notes,” Maddy said, slicking glitter balm across her lips like she meant to kiss and conquer. Somewhere along the way she’d stolen the brownie pan, and now perched on the couch arm like a goblin monarch, eating with royal entitlement.
I didn’t have pajamas. Just a faded black tank, borrowed sleep shorts, and the vague hope no one noticed I wasn’t dressed for sparkly combat. But Bellamy lobbed a blanket at me with divine force, and I sank onto the oversized couch like I belonged.
The remote passed between hands like a sacred weapon.
“We’re watching10 Things I Hate About You,” Maddy declared, hurling herself across the cushions like an Olympic gymnast mid-vault.
“Because it’s the blueprint,” Bellamy said, peeling open a face mask packet with her teeth like a deranged skincare surgeon.
I raised an eyebrow. “Is emotional sabotage part of the skincare routine?”
Maddy nodded, solemn. “It’s exfoliation for the soul.”
Bellamy gave me a once-over, then pointed her spoon at me again. “You need this.”
“I do not.”
“You have so many feelings, and none of them have been properly moisturized.”
“Is that a diagnosis or an insult?”
“It’s a love letter written in glitter and glycolic acid. Shut up and hydrate.”
I didn’t argue. Bellamy had the vibe of someone fully willing to pin me down and apply a collagen mask by force. I took another sip of Prosecco, dragged the blanket higher, and felt something ease in my chest, like my muscles were starting tobelieve the war was actually on pause, if only for one night wrapped in frosting and pink silk.
The couch dissolved into a tangle of limbs, snacks, and stolen pillows. Bellamy claimed mine without shame. Maddy sprawled on the floor like Heath Ledger’s smile had emotionally assassinated her. String lights glowed from every window, Maddy’s handiwork, no doubt. A prescription for serotonin and ambience.
Popcorn crackled from the kitchen like celebratory gunfire. The air smelled of chocolate, hairspray, and mutiny. Onscreen, Julia Stiles launched into her monologue, and Bellamy mouthed every word like scripture. Maddy cried when Kat read the poem. I pretended not to.
I didn’t know what this was, this chaos pretending to be comfort, but I liked it. No one asked me to laugh, or quote along. No one cared whether I stayed quiet or cried. They just let me exist. No edge required. No performance. Just space.
That alone felt revolutionary.
A brownie crumb shot past my face. Maddy’s doing. Bellamy retaliated with a pillow, missed Maddy, and nearly decapitated me. I sipped without flinching.
“Children,” I muttered.
“Glitter gremlins,” Maddy corrected mid-swing. “Say it with respect.”
I shook my head and tried not to smile. Failed. No one was watching, but I smiled anyway. And somehow, that was the most dangerous part.
Bellamy tossed a popcorn kernel in the air. “Three for three, bitches,” she announced, catching it with a triumphant smirk. She pointed at Maddy, already winding up.
“Miss, and you owe me your glitter socks.”
