Page 49 of Bitter Truths

“Oh—”

“No, it’s fine. I asked for this.” He chuckles. “Yes, a long time ago, I was lost, and I needed help. Someone gave me that help, and it inspired me to be who I am now.”

“A counselor?”

“Yep.”

“Wow. Okay. Did you . . . ever hurt yourself?”

“No, Halsey. Never,” he says softly.

“How did they help you? Inspire you?”

“She showed me how to live.”

Blankly, I stare at him, trying to process his words. “I don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t matter. I should go. Will you be okay walking home alone?”

“Yes. Um, thanks. It was nice to have a friend,” I say with a timid smile, sensing maybe I pushed him too far, and although I’m curious, I let it go because he didn’t have to do any of this.

“It was,” he says quietly before waving and walking away.

Looking after him, I wonder just what she did to show him how to live? Whatever it was, it inspired him to help others, and maybe it could help me, too.

Chapter Fourteen

My black heart beats for you.

HALSEY

The following week, I spent a lot of time considering Dr. Marks’ words, and although it was nice to hear him talk about himself, something decidedly un-therapy-like, I’m now wondering if he was even being truthful. More likely, he found a way to squeeze in a lesson to better my mental health, to which I can only roll my eyes in frustration.

I know I’m fucked up. This was established a long time ago, but still, does every interaction have to remind me?

I decide to set it aside because, like it or not, he’s my counselor for the foreseeable future, and at the least, I guess his actions show he cares.

Halloween is bitterly cold, but thankfully the threat of new snow never materializes. This year, Aaron is dragging me along to the club, and with last year’s shenanigans—where I attacked Jason and tried to sterilize him—in mind, I hope this year is a little less exciting.

Since it’s so chilly, I refuse to wear a costume and bundle up in a comfy sweater, jeans, and boots, but Aaron, who’s decked out in a tight Superman costume, the size freakishly small, looks at me in horror.

Before I can protest, I’m divested of my sweater, and he’s pushing a tube top and sparkly earrings at me.

“Should I be disturbed you know where all my things are?” I ask dryly.

“Nope,” he says with a cheeky grin.

Rolling my eyes, I change into the clothes and sit on the toilet seat while he applies my makeup like a pro.

When he’s done, I look remarkably like a character from a 90s sitcom, and the flannel shirt he presses into my hands completes the outfit.

Admiring my reflection in the mirror, I look at him as he puts away the makeup, curious about my friend and the list of his abilities I’m still learning. “How do you know how to do makeup?”

“I used to dress up as a drag queen. Okay, now we’re ready. And you can thank me later when you get laid,” he says, waggling his brows.

Tucking away that morsel from his past, I chuff, “Yeah, I doubt it.”

“Not if lover boy is there,” he sing-songs. “Even I get a boner when he looks at you.”

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