4. Scarlett
Scarlett
T he bathroom smelled like coconut shampoo and secrets.
Sloane brushed her teeth like she was prepping for battle—elbow sharp, stance wide, eyes locked on her gorgeous reflection, daring it to flinch first. Lena sat on the counter beside the sink, bare feet swinging in slow rhythmic arcs.
She was humming something under her breath, peeling flecks of old nail polish from her pinky as if the day didn’t quite fit right on her skin.
While I leaned against the doorframe, towel slipping from one shoulder, the backs of my shoulders still damp and stinging from too much sun.
The bathroom light buzzed faintly overhead—too bright for how heavy I felt.
We’d been doing this forever.
The getting ready, the shared mirrors, the quiet knowing. A friendship built from years of shared bus rides, locker room confessions, and heartbreaks we pretended didn’t sting as much as they did.
High school brought us together, three girls who weren’t supposed to fit but did. We survived bad dates, mean girls, and that one-week junior year when we all thought the world was ending because Lena got dumped over text.
Sloane was the one who kept us moving. She was always polished and prepared; her blonde hair was perfect, even when she claimed otherwise.
She ran cross country like she was trying to outrun something, and she could call bullshit with just a look.
Protective to a fault. She’d throw hands for you in the parking lot, then buy you coffee after.
Lena was the heart. Red hair always curled at the ends, freckles she hated, but we loved, and eyes that saw too much. She felt everything, and didn’t apologize for it. She was soft in a way the world tried to harden. Brave in a way, no one gave her credit for.
And here I was, somewhere in between.
Golden blonde waves that never stayed flat, a body that grew up taller and leaner than I ever learned how to carry. A mouth that got me in trouble more times than I could count. I didn’t cry much. Not in front of people. But I felt it all. Deep down, where it stayed.
Lena looked up at me watching me through the mirror instead of turning around. “You okay?”
I nodded. Too fast.
She raised one brow, not buying it. “You don’t have to lie, you know.”
Sloane spit into the sink. “She always lies. She just looks good doing it.”
I laughed—one of those sharp, breathless sounds that fixes nothing but still buys you time, because that’s what you do when the people who love you most try to remind you who you are.
“I’m fine,” I said again, softer this time.
Lena reached for my hand, fingers curling warm around mine. “We’ve got you.”
And in that moment, standing barefoot in a fogged-up bathroom with the girls who knew every version of me—I let myself believe her.