Page 5 of Loved By The Bad Boy

Many minutes later, someone knocks. I lift my gaze to the open door. Mom. She lowers herself to the bed. I’m mute, and she’s so quiet it’s easy to forget she’s here. She draws close by one inch, then another, until her hip touches mine. Her arm wraps around my waist, and I rest my head on her shoulder.

“Ben. My Benny,” she whispers. Her voice cracks. Breeze rustles the curtain, and for a second, I wish for its freedom to penetrate any space. I would be in New York with Gracie. I will tell her everything, starting from that night when it first happened. “Will you ever forgive me, Benny?”

I give her hand a small squeeze. “It’s okay.”

Her tears spill to my arm, but I am too numb to react or console her. I look out the window and the clear, blue skies. I think I am suffering from my first heartbreak, and I don’t know how to handle it.

I miss Gracie.

“We will take care of it, I swear.”

“Okay. Thank you,” I whisper. Mom squeezes my hand harder. The air is thick with our sadness. I want to talk about something else, about my girl. “Gracie left. I think I’m heartbroken, Mom.”

Mom says nothing. She holds me tight in silent comfort, and everything is a little better for that moment.

Three

Google Photos is stupid.Tell me why the app is bringing up memories of Ben and me from last month. I thought I had deleted all the pictures of us. Oh, right. Even if you delete the photos, as long as they are backed up, Google Photos will show them to you when she thinks it appropriate.

I tap on the delete icon at the lower part of my screen to erase the silly pictures of both of us on our second month anniversary. I should have gone to the house instead of following him to Olivia’s.

Photos and videos will be removed from your Google Account, synced devices, and places where you’ve shared them within Google Photos. You may need to review these changes on synced devices.Learn more.

My arm trembles, and the phone almost drops. I hit the first option:Cancel.There are too many synched pictures of us, anyway. It will take more than an hour, and Mom is expecting me in their room. My car isn’t here yet, and neither is hers, so Dad has to drop us off before leaving for the hospital. I’m yet to visit the new hospital. So far, he has only great things to say about the staff.

I toss my phone on the bed and grab my outfit of the day from the closet: a polo shirt and ripped jeans. Something tugs at my heart. The memories of us in matching ripped jeans crash over me. I push them out of my mind, but the more I fight them, the more persistent they become. I grip the headboard, heaving as I struggle to calm my heart. He’s just a boy. I’m over him. I hate him.

Forcing images of Ben hugging Olivia to the top of my mind helps. I drag in a shaky breath and straighten up. With heartbreaks, random breakdowns are expected. It hurts even more because there are no physical signs. If it were a cut, I would slap a bandaid over it. But you can’t bandaid a broken heart.

My phone rings. Maria’s nickname flashes on the screen. Today isn’t a good day to talk to the drama queen. I ignore it and saunter to the mirror after changing into another outfit—a dress. I open the drawer to pick out my makeup stuff, but my fingers brush the cold metal of the scissors.

A picture of me in a black pixie-cut wig pops out of nowhere. I had that wig for Halloween, and I didn’t look so awful. I drop the scissors on the vanity. But the image only grows to the point a bob is the only thing on my mind. What screams bad bitch, orI’ve moved on from boysbetter than a new haircut and hair dye? I raise the scissors to the tips of my hair and trim off the ends.

Wisps of my hair float in the air for a minute, then settle on the floor. I return the scissors to the drawer, pulling my hair into a low ponytail. I can’t do it. Maybe I’ll dye it instead. I’m moving on from Ben and everything that reminds me of him. I lay out the makeup I got from Mom on the table.

Mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick are parts of my usual makeup routines. That’s on the days I go all out. But I have a foundation close to my skin tone in front of me and a concealer to hide the circles under my eyes. Mom even let me borrow her bronzer and eyebrow gel. I don’t know how to use a bronzer. I’ve never tried to fill in my brows because I looked like a clown with two uneven eyebrows the last time I tried it.

But this is a new school. I can try to be different. I rush to get my phone and tune in to the firstmakeup for beginnerstutorial I find on YouTube. I should have done this yesterday. But I was as moody as I was the day we arrived. A part of me was hoping Mom would take that as a hint to cancel school for today, but she has been too busy giggling with her husband. Those two are disgusting.

I apply the foundation first. As soon as it touches my cheeks, panic sets in. Shit. I think I put too much. I spread it all over my face like the lady in the tutorial instructed but end up with patches and cakey skin. Frowning at myself does nothing to help. I wipe the foundation, shove the other stuff into the drawer, and continue my not-so-usual routine of mascara, gloss, and eyeliner.

A sound from outside my room catches my attention. The door to my room is half-open so I can hear the sounds in the mini-living room. It must be Mom since I’m taking too long. I finish my look with a matte powder. Maria will be proud. Ben too. He’s proud of every little progress I make. Too bad he isn’t here to witness my first failed attempt. Ugh. Why am I thinking about him?

I’ve moved on.

A tear drops to my cheek when I stand in front of the mirror to check myself out. I wipe it fast. Ben, who? My phone pings. I unlock it and groan, thinking it’s Maria Vega. She’s such a disturbance.

It’s not Maria but Vogue’s official Instagram page. I turned on their post notifications to know when they post the results of that useless challenge Ben made me join. Another stupid memory that hurts. My heart drums against my ribcage as I flip through the pictures to see the winners.

I don’t know what I expect, but when I reach the end of the post and zoom in on the list of notable mentions without seeing my username or picture anywhere, my chest caves in on me. I drop to the bed. I never wanted to do it. Ben made me do it. Saying that to myself helps to keep me sane. I grab my backpack and scream silently when my phone buzzes for the second time in a few minutes. It can’t be Ben. I blocked him everywhere possible. Why would he even contact me?

It’s 6:50 am. If we were still in San Francisco or a relationship, I would be heading to the house right now to pick up my boyfriend and his cute baby brother. I was so dumb back then, doing so many things out of love. Where did that get me? My calendar pops up with a new notification.

Benny and Gracie’s anniversary.

Today is our third month anniversary. I set an alarm to be reminded every month. Yeah, I was a firm believer in love and happy endings. I know better now. I shove the phone into my backpack as the door to my room fully opens. Mom’s head pokes in, her hair tumbling down her shoulders in soft waves.

“Hello there, daughter of mine,” Mom says to cheer me up. She never greets that way, but she has been ecstatic since she reconnected with her husband. I fake a smile. “Okay, honey. What’s wrong?”

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