Page 17 of Every Thought Taken

I slam my eyes closed, take a deep breath, and hold it. Like I have done countless times, I count to ten and try to refocus my thoughts. Try to exit the dark tunnel my mind entered.

Each number I tick off in my head, I pair it with something positive. Tangible. A happy memory or thought.

Ales’s breath-stealing hugs. Summer camping trips at Seaquest. Hikes in the woods or by the lake. The smell of rain and the feel of it on my face. Movie nights with Ales, Helena, and Magdalena. The hours between school and when my parents get home. Snowball fights with the girls. Birthdays with Helena—minus the big party. The compass from Helena. Moments like this, where it is just me and her and comfort.

I unfurl my fingers and exhale. Open my eyes and take a steadying breath.

“Better?”

“Yes.” Not completely, but better.

Her fingers toy with the ripped denim of my jeans once more. “What he did is beyond unacceptable. I gave in to my fury and devastation after school when no one would see.” She releases the string, twists onto her side, and hugs my arm with hers. “Now…” She takes a deep breath, her hand slipping beneath the sleeve of my shirt. “He gets none of my energy. None of my thoughts. Nothing.”

I want to wish away my darkness the way she wishes away this guy. Life would be easier. People would want to spend time with me, befriend me, care about me and my opinion.

If only it were that simple.

“Since you made peace with it, so will I.” At least, I will try.

“He doesn’t deserve any of our thoughts—good or bad.”

Silence falls between us once more. It isn’t loaded with questions or tension or hurt. Instead, the contentment from before our talk returns. Forms a bubble around us. Protects us from the Grants and Marissas and asshole bullies of the world.

I like this bubble.

“I never want to fall in love,” she whispers into the breeze. “I will never give some stupid boy the chance to break my heart. Never again.”

And just like that, the bubble pops.

CHAPTER9

HELENA

Twelve Years Ago

“Yes, girl,” I say as I clasp my hands together and bring them to my lips. “Red is definitely your color.”

Lessa holds the fire engine red V-neck top to her chest as she assesses herself in the mirror. “Yeah?”

Mags sidles up to her, arm draped with several tops and dresses to try on. “Absolutely.”

With our reassurances, Lessa scurries into a dressing room, Mags taking the one next to her. I drop into the cushy chair and wait for the fashion show to start. To no one’s surprise, Lessa has something from each rack in the store. And we will get no less than a dozen outfit changes before she decides what to buy. Mags’s pile of maybes is the same size as mine. Small.

Though I love new clothes, I only get a couple new tops and bottoms at the start of a new school year. Over the past two years, I haven’t grown much. Not enough to donate my current wardrobe and start fresh. Which makes me fortunate enough to add new pieces here and there. And since we skip the mad rush to buy new clothes before the school year starts, we don’t end up with the same stuff as half the school—which isn’t big to begin with.

The curtain whooshes open and Lessa steps out, a huge smile brightening her expression. “I love this shirt.” She walks over to the mirror and twists from side to side. “It makes my boobs look bigger.”

My cheeks heat as my gaze falls to my lap. Locks of hair fall forward as I drop my chin to my chest. I use the momentary privacy to glance at my own chest. Frustration and self-degradation simmer beneath the surface as I take in my lack of boobs. My lesser femininity.

A year ago, I swore off boys. Swore off pricks who would break my heart. But just once, it would be nice if a boy stared. It’d be nice for one of them to say I’m pretty.

Taking a deep breath, I straighten my spine and lift my chin. “That top was made for you,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “Should definitely get it.”

Mags walks out in a knee-length cream-and-floral sundress with half sleeves. The neckline dips between but doesn’t flaunt her small breasts. The material hugs her body enough to show her slight curves but not restrict her movement. Flowy, yet snug.

“And you should say yes to that dress,” I declare.

Mags runs a hand over where the bust meets the skirt. “It’s not too tight?”

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