Page 92 of A Dead Girl's Guide to Living
“See, she should have just called the cops here,” Liv said loudly. “Or like, I dunno, left town? But no. Let’s go check the house with no working lights and weird breathing. At this point, she deserves to die for stupidity.”
“You seem like an expert,” I muttered dryly.
“Oh, I am,” Liv gushed happily. “I spent an entire summer when I was sixteen watching every horror movie I could get my hands on. Spent the bulk of them making out with my boyfriend, but you know, you get the gist after a few.”
Neither Dove nor I said anything, and Liv finally went quiet on the roof—just as the silence on the screen before us settled over the drive-in like the film itself was holding its breath.
Then, a loud, crashing sting of music—a flash of a white mask—and a scream (either Jamie Lee’s or mine; I’d blame Jamie), and I leapt, knocking over the popcorn and grabbing the closest thing to me in horror.
Dove’s arm.
My hand clamped around her bicep like I was trying to anchor myself to this reality and not the one unraveling on screen. I felt her jolt slightly in surprise, a half-laugh bursting from her as she turned to look at me, eyes shining.
“My, my,” she said softly. “So horror scares Ellis Langley.”
“You jumped too,” I said quickly, pulling my hand from her arm and settling back down, immediately busying myself with gathering the scattered popcorn.
I didn’t dare look at her. Michael Myers might’ve stopped stalking Jamie, but now he was stalking me in the shape of my embarrassment, huge, teeth-baring, and chasing me more effectively than the killer on screen.
I shoved some popcorn in my mouth, trying to act normal, and caught Dove glancing down at the spot on her arm where I’d held her. She looked back at the screen without saying another word. No teasing. No grin.
But something in the air had shifted again.
It had been easier when I didn’t care about her. When I’d been indifferent to her forced presence in my life.
Easier when she was just the tarot girl with messy space buns and Converse worn to the point of tragedy. Easier when her charm didn’t get under my skin.
But now she knew too much. She’d seen me unravel in that field. She’d heard the raw cliff notes of my life story in the laundromat. She’d held my hand with a look in her eyes that had... made me feel a certain way.
And I didn’t even know all that much about her.
Yes, I knew she’d taken over the shop from her deceased grandmother—whose ashes were currently traveling with us—but that was about it.
All I really knew was that she was bold. That she lived by the rhythm of her own instincts. That she had legs for days. That she kissed girls. And that she didn’t seem to flinch at life’s ugliness.
How many girls had she dated?
The thought crept in, uninvited and unrelenting, landing like a bitter little weight in the center of my chest.
I peeked at her again from the corner of my eye.
She seemed like the type who knew what she was doing. Kissed like she meant it. Touched people without second-guessing herself. She probably didn’t break into a cold sweat every time someone sat too close or asked too many personal questions.
I wasn’t—I wasn’t like that.
I didn’t know how to do…whateverthis was.
Alexis had been my first and only girlfriend, and even that had felt like some kind of accidental miracle. She was cool and bright and beautiful. She pulled tarot cards to explain her moods and carried crystals in her pockets. (I clearly had a type.) She kissed me breathless behind the art building and told me I made her feel less alone.
Then she’d fallen apart.
Because of me.
Because I broke her.
Because my life was a giant wrecking ball, and she had been too close to the impact zone.
“You’re the only thing that’s holding me together, Ellis. I can’t lose you.”
