45. Serena
Serena
Remind me never to listen to social media again.
In that gorgeous house, with a drawer full of luxury athletic clothing and a credit card to buy whatever I wanted, I convinced myself that I could join the latest fitness trend and become a runner.
But now, on the road outside the house in my brand new running shoes, with my hair tied back and my lungs shriveling in my chest, I’m majorly regretting this decision. Money truly cannot buy you everything.
It’s at that moment that I think, okay, that’s it, I’m really done, and start to walk again that I hear the soft purr of an engine behind me. Fear springs up inside me, and I think about Travis this morning, telling me to stay within the gates.
Why did I leave?
And what should I do? The car isn’t going past—in fact, I can hear it following right behind me. At once, I can feel every part of my body—the tips of my ears, the backs of my calves, every tiny hair on my forearms.
Before I can figure out what to do—run away or try to fight—the car pulls up beside me, and a familiar face appears. “Get in. We need to talk.”
A bark of laughter pops out of me like the cork on a shaken bottle.
Bianca is sitting behind the wheel of a white convertible. Despite the dust and grime of the gravel country road, she has the top down. Her dark hair is wrapped in a silk, patterned scarf. Knowing her, that thing was a thousand dollars in some exclusive vintage shop.
Instead of justifying this stupidity with a response, I just flip her the bird and turn, walking back to the house. She can follow me all she wants, but she won’t make it through the gate once I get there.
“Serena!” she shouts, her voice breaking a little. I hear her throw the car back into gear, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder if she might actually run me down. “Please. Can we just talk? It’s important, Ser?—”
“No!” I tip my head back and yell it to the sky, like some god up there might hear the answer and smite her for me. Of course, nothing happens. “Why don’t you just fuck off? Don’t you have someone at home, wondering where you’ve gone?”
I continue walking. Bianca continues following me. Fat, fluffy white clouds drift through the sky, and the first crisp breeze of fall blows over my arms. In the distance, a cow moos.
First, I couldn’t enjoy the scenery because I was trying to run, of all things. And now, I can’t appreciate it because I’m being followed by my bitch ex-best friend. Of all things.
And, stupidly, there’s a part of me that wants to turn around and walk right up to her car. To yell and scream at her. To fight it out, get it over with like we have with our other disagreements.
But this isn’t a disagreement. This is, without a doubt, the worst thing someone has ever done to me. And that’s saying something, considering my childhood of asshole foster homes and school administrators who didn’t give a fuck about me.
Suddenly, the convertible whips up and around me on the road, spraying me with rocks and dust. Bianca yanks it to the side so it covers the road at a diagonal, blocking my path.
I stare at her for a moment, shocked at this—I didn’t even know she could drive—then I turn on my heel and start walking in the other direction.
Sooner or later, she’ll give up.
“It’s not just about you!” she yells, and when I turn to look at her again, she’s holding the wheel like it’s an anchor, her sunglasses in her hand.
Even from this distance, I can make out the fact that she’s been crying. I can make out the glimmer of wetness on her cheeks, and the faint, shiny shadow of a bruise on her left cheek.
Something catches in my throat. Is that a black eye?
Where would she have gotten a black eye? She’s the least clumsy person I know. She takes every step as if she were raised practicing in a ballroom with textbooks balanced on her head. Bianca would never accidentally give herself a bruise like that.
Was it Alex?
Stupidly, the thought makes me hot with rage. He cheated, and she betrayed me, and yet here I am, lighting up with fury at the idea of anyone laying a hand on her.
“Who is it about, then?” I call back, popping a hand on my hip, feeling like a couple of kids in the schoolyard, having a shouting match.
“Your… guys,” she says, pinching her lips together, a classic Bianca-ism that shows she very much does not like the arrangement I have going on.
My anger over her black eye turns to rage over her bringing them into this. I stalk forward until the passenger side door is under my hands, and I can lean in, scowl at her. When I do, a flicker of fear passes over her face, and I think good.
Good. I want her to be afraid of me.
I think about what she said in her room. Like, you don’t have to act out, just because things didn’t go your way.
Bianca knows what kind of trouble I got into when I was a kid. She knows that there were times, frustrated and alone, that I got into fights with other girls, even boys, in my class. That I couldn’t stand to be picked on, and I’d come back swinging.
Maybe Bianca needs someone to scare her. Someone to pull her hair, push her down, ruin her perfect, fancy clothes. For the first time since meeting her, I see her for who she is—not a slightly judgmental rich girl, but a bully.
What she needs is for someone to stand up to her. To show her that she can’t just do whatever she wants without consequences. That money and status don’t mean anything. A punch hurts just as bad, no matter which fist throws it.
“Is that a threat?” I growl, staring her down.
Bianca clutches her sunglasses like they might save her from me. Trying to still her quivering chin, she looks off into the distance and says, quietly, “No. It’s me trying to make up for being a terrible friend to you, Serena.”