Your Biggest Fan

50. ROXANNE

Chapter fifty

I need to repaint my walls.

Everything is blue, blue, blue. It’s not a color anymore—it’s a goddamn invasion.

The walls, my bedspread, and even the flannel sticking out from my closet. The color has stared down at me in the bedroom that I’ve spent the weekend piecing slowly back together, courtesy of my mother and her parental fuckery.

I’m drained and my body feels like the inside of one of those chocolate bunnies I used to get for Easter with no filling. I’ve barely slept a wink despite having zero obligations or responsibilities left to weigh me down. She always said she wanted me to amount to something.

Well done, Mom. Gold star for you. Stick it right on that fridge where my childhood dreams ferment in the crisper drawer.

With a grunt, I haul myself into an upright position, bracing for the full, suffocating weight of my currently disastrous existence to come crashing back down. It hits me every morning —that feeling of something dark and heavy sitting square on my chest, pinning me to the mattress so I can’t move.

My ribs ache where my lungs have tried to inflate every time I tried to catch a breath in between tears, and my skull still pounds from where it slammed against the bedframe after my big Aha! moment of realizing Mom’s grand going away present was draining my savings.

That woman still hasn’t bothered coming home since tearing my room apart. I can only assume she made a quick buck scalping my vinyl collection before blowing town, or using it to party at her pill dealer’s house.

I know things happen for a reason, but what the fuck? I can’t even play music to keep out the quiet, only left with my Heart cassette that I always kept in my car, or the heartbreak mix I made a long time ago that seems appropriate yet again.

She ripped a piece of my soul away and smashed it right next to the newly formed Noah sized hole gaping inside of me. I wrap my blanket tighter around myself, but it doesn’t ease the loss I feel with every nanosecond it’s not his arms around me.

Man. I should feel relieved, right? This is what I said I needed—space to process the implosion of my life. Except every time I let my mind wander, it circles back to three days ago.

I’m not blameless. I let my own fears and insecurities get the best of me.

The way I lashed out, the things I said... God, I was such a bitch. Noah was trying to open up to me, to explain what he’d been through, and I threw it back in his face. I made him feel like he was another problem I had to deal with, when the truth is, he’s the lighthouse that guides me home.

The clouds were just so heavy that day that I couldn’t find it.

What use is light when your eyes are sewn shut with dark threads of self-loathing? How do you find a lighthouse when you’ve become the storm?

The look on his face when I told him to fuck off was as if I’d ripped his heart out and stomped on it right in front of him, knowing I was doing it. I knew exactly where to aim, how to make it hurt, and I did it anyway. He kept pushing, not allowing me a second to catch a breath, wouldn’t stop yelling and I…

I was angry.

Three days later, since the sound of his dirt bike driving off sounded more like the whine of an injured animal, the anger has faded, but the guilt is eating me alive. I miss Noah so much it physically hurts. I miss the way his ears move up when he smiles, his Doritos-dusted fingers, hell, even that chain that blinds me when the sun hits it at the right time.

I miss my best friend.

All weekend, I’ve been staring at the phone like a pathetic loser. There were so many times where I thought about trying to call him, but pride kept my fingers glued to my sides because he’d also pushed too far. I couldn’t forget that right now, no matter how much I miss him.

I don’t know his new phone number anyway.

Forgetting is one thing, but it’s harder to forgive when he walked out of the band knowing that I needed it, or when it feels as if he was blaming me for everything that had happened to him, like I put a gun to his head and forced him to move in with Principal Phillips. He resents me for his abusive stepdad, resents me for the whole fucking world falling apart.

A shiver runs through me and I tighten the blankets around me. I’ve never seen him look so mad. The fire in his eyes was strong and proud, and while I was stupidly happy for him to be letting it out, it was a lot to handle.

Jasmine barks and my exhaustion fights with all those usual emotions that I can’t latch onto and pick only one to deal with as I force myself to get up from the bed. I’m not sure how to move forward anymore. Daniel will take Noah’s side, which is the last remaining hope I have to pull together this Battle of the Bands team.

Whatever . I have bigger problems I need to worry about, I guess. I need to pull myself together while I work through my shit and feed the dog.

After I shove all of my books into my backpack for the first day of school since winter break, I set my jaw against the threat of tears. I’ve got less than five months till graduation and I’ll be damned if I don’t leave this house for good. I need to get my head in the game and figure out a new plan to make it happen since I’m officially $740 short, on top of the $1000 I was hoping to win.

I'm sure I can pick up double shifts every day for the rest of the school year. Or I can audition for The Price Is Right. They appreciate good sob stories, don’t they?

Though my internal alarm woke me up way earlier than usual thanks to my anxiety about facing Noah for the first time since our fight, I still managed to drag my sad sack of bones into the bathroom later than intended. A jaw-cracking yawn rips through me as I stretch and peer into the mirror, only to instantly let out a horrified gasp at the sight of my face.

Staring back at me with all the beauty of a crypt-dweller is, well, me .

My eyes are swollen and angry, and my tangled rat’s nest of hair is plastered across my sweaty forehead. Even my nose shines a bright, irritated pink from all the tissues I’ve been using. It’s obvious I spent last night crying into my pillow again.

In other words, I look exactly how I feel on the inside. The Crypt Keeper rising from his tomb and about to tell you the next horror story in Tales From The Crypt .

Today it’s: How I Learned to Overcry.

After splashing ice-cold water on my face and brushing out the knots formed from hours of restless misery in my hair, I drag myself to the kitchen and fumble with the coffee maker, desperate for caffeine to wake me. The rich aroma fills the air as I pour the scalding brew into a chipped mug, my hands shaking so bad I spill half of it on the counter.

"Shit," I mutter, grabbing a rag to mop up my mess when the front door creaks open.

I bolt upright, mug slipping from my hands entirely this time. It shatters on the floor, sending the rest of the coffee that was inside it spilling out everywhere.

My mother, grinning from ear to ear and looking refreshed and rejuvenated after her Vegas trip or spa vacation or whatever the fuck she blew my money on, shuts the door behind her. Her smile grows wider when she takes in my puffy eyes.

And doesn’t say a single word as she breezes past me toward the liquor cabinet.

“Where are my things?” The words burst from my chapped lips before I can think better of trying to talk to her this early.

“What things?” she asks, placing new bottles from a paper bag clutched in her arm into their special slots.

“My records.”

“Oh.” She pops the cap off of one and sniffs it. “I had to pawn those for a couple of bills. You know how it is, the cost of living these days has been brutal ever since the recession hit.”

My cheeks burn. Yeah, as if the steady government assistance checks weren’t enough to keep us going each month.

I flip her off behind her back and mouth the word ‘bitch’ before I crouch back down to the ground to pick up the broken pieces, the energy draining out of me as quickly as it came. She’s not worth wasting more of my bodily fluids over, not when the next attack might be right around the corner when I get to school.

I refill a new mug and take my coffee to my room.

After downing the bitter dregs, I'm relieved to see that while I still look like death warmed over, a hot shower might be enough to mask the worst of it.

By the time I’m actually ready to leave, I dress for emotional war. Black tights, a short dress in the same color, and an unbuttoned green flannel thrown over top. The look is finished off with my boots, as always. I’d done my makeup the same as usual and spent an eternity getting that perfect “I don’t give a shit” hair, then I practiced my “don’t mess with me” glare in the mirror.

It's not enough. But it's way better than looking like a total broken loser.

My eyes catch on Noah's white jacket hanging off the back of my vanity chair. The one I “accidentally” never returned after formal. There’s no way I can hand it back to him now.

Maybe Stephanie can give it to Daniel…

No . I’ll leave that ugly cry for another day when I’m ready to deal.

I grab my backpack, give a good palm slapping kiss to the Lee Aaron poster on my wall for some of her inner strength, and walk my way out of there like I’m Suze fucking Quatro.

My shoes crunch the snow as I slam the front screen door, and the sound of clinking bottles passes by me as my mom grabs more shit from her car.

My eyes fly up to the sky. Another perfect morning in paradise.

I hop in my car and take my sweet time driving. For once, I’m going against my anxiety to be early to everything and arriving late to class. It’s called for.

Noah’s dirt bike is the first thing my eyes see once I park, snow dusting the seat, and I stop myself to practice my resting bitch face a few more times in the mirror before I even think about getting out. All because my brain decided to fixate on wondering how he stays warm in the winter weather riding that thing around, and how much I’ll miss not seeing him on the streets when I finally get out of here.

I shake my head, picturing myself dunking my brain in toilet water to flush away every last thought. I can’t do this. I can’t have a single thing tying me to this town—to this life I don’t want to be living in.

My eyes wander back to the visor mirror, and I don't recognize the girl staring back at me. I’m looking at a total stranger now. Is this what love does to you? Changes you so fundamentally, you don’t even know who you are anymore?

Hell if I know.

I don’t know anything anymore, except that I’m scared of how intensely I feel, of how much I want. Scared that for the first time in my life, I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to cut and run.

Well, too damn bad. I have to be. I have to suck it up and keep my eyes on the prize, or die trying. The alternative is even scarier to consider.

Jaw set, I keep practicing my mean face, keep breathing, keep pretending.

Pretend that my heart isn’t cracking everytime I keep my lips in a perfectly flat line.

Pretend that the tears burning behind my eyes are only from the sun being too bright.

Pretend that I’m not in love.

I glance into my backseat and remember the way Noah buried himself in me, then I banish it.

I don’t care.

I throw open the door and march onward. I don’t need anyone. I’m a goddamn impenetrable fortress now, thank you very much. Everything is fine and dandy and fucking peachy.

My mental soundtrack blares Edge Of A Broken Heart as I storm up the path to the school.

I suck in a breath so deep I'm pretty sure I just inhaled half the ozone layer. Peeking through Mrs. Taylor's classroom window, I spot the usual suspects unpacking their academic torture devices, and my designated isolation chamber, masquerading as an empty desk near the back. Where I fully plan to hide for the next thirty minutes.

I’m trying to pump myself up, building the bravery I need to have in order to twist this damn door handle and strut inside without messing up my very serious look. Especially when I’ll have to be seated right next to the one guy whose stare could break it in two seconds flat.

My fingers comb through my hair, dragging it over both my shoulders and shaking it out. It's a pathetic shield, but it's all I've got.

Mrs. Taylor’s voice is the first thing I hear as the door creaks open, and I shove myself through before my brain has the common sense to make me ditch school to eat discounted Christmas chocolate from the gas station like any reasonable human.

With my most sickly-sweet, passable smile, I lock eyes with Taylor’s crown of curls.

“I’m so sorry for being late.” All eyes are burning me as I lay on the remorse extra thick, and I know his gaze is the hottest of them all.

“Not a problem, Roxanne.” She waves me toward the lone empty seat with a warm smile that makes me want to puke. “We’re unpacking the reading from break.”

I step forward, keeping my head down and eyes on my feet as I make my way quickly down the aisle.

Don’t look right, do NOT look right at him.

The mantra screams in my head as I approach my desk. I contort my body to avoid any contact with Noah's space before sliding into my chair, using every shred of my power not to let my gaze drift over as I shrug off my backpack and hang it on the back of my chair.

A power that breaks the second my stupid curiosity has me glancing to my right.

My heart nosedives when warm brown eyes and wiggling fingers are instead sitting next to me.

If he’s not sitting next to me then where…

My eyes hunt for him and I find him three rows up and one over, perfectly positioned to avoid all eye contact.

Of course he switched spots with Daniel. Easier to pretend we don’t exist that way. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, not sure if I’m more relieved or disappointed by the distance between us.

Mrs. Taylor's voice becomes Charlie Brown's teacher as I twirl the top of my pencil between my lips, catching maybe every third word while the radio in my head switches to Heart’s Cruel Nights . Even with three rows of students separating us, it's as if he’s sitting right next to me. My skin starts to roast from the heat coming off of him, and I keep squirming and crossing and uncrossing my ankles. Never have I felt like my own body is nowhere because there’s no space for it in the same room with him.

This isn’t attraction—it’s antimatter.

Has he always burned this bright?

Eventually, the urge to sneak a peek becomes so unbearably overwhelming that a rabid wolf tears at my guts and I can’t resist it anymore. He’s the moon and I’m a wave caught in his gravitational pull as I carefully lean my cheek against my hand, tilting my head like I'm just resting my poor, knowledge-burdened skull, and my eyes creep to the right.

My soul gasps: Noah Jackson.

That charming, arrogant, punk reels me in, and I can’t look anywhere else.

Same one hell of a sculpted jawline, those lips softer than a whispered secret. Same dark hair kissing the back of his collar, same curl framing the left side of his face. That same blue vein in his neck that bulges when he wants something bad.

My gaze free-falls down to that red jacket stretching across his shoulders, down to his strong forearms that are shown off by the rolled-up sleeves. Those endless legs are sprawled under the seat in front of him, Chucks crossed at the ankle. He's slouching—of course he is—one arm draped across his desk. That black ring catches the sun shining through the window as he marks something on his desk with a Sharpie.

It's a perfect carbon copy of the Noah I used to know. As if someone hit pause on the last few months, preserved him in amber while the rest of us kept living. But the proof of time's passage is in the way my ribcage constricts, each heartbeat a painful reminder of inside jokes, midnight car hood stargazing, mixtapes with more meaning than words, and the soft thud of Converse on my bedroom floor when he crawled through my window.

I suck back the tear watering my nose when I feel Daniel’s eyes on me.

You’re fucking fine.

With immense effort, I yank my eyes away and build my walls higher. I don’t need anyone. I have myself and my bootstraps and a playlist full of angry girl rock. I’m fine. Totally and completely fine.

Never been better.

I force my face into neutrality and relax, focusing on Mrs. Taylor and the blackboard, pretending that Noah is a figment of my imagination and this is another regular day in English Lit. I doodle on my piece of paper, scribbling little stars until I end up with a melting smiley face that I scribble out really hard until I want to stab myself with the pen.

When the class is almost over, I snap my notebook shut and shove it into my backpack, ready to make a break for it the second the bell rings. I’m going to throw my bag over my shoulder and be the first one out that door.

Except Noah beats me to it, rushing into the hallway before the last chime even has a chance to bounce off the walls. Okay, dickhead.

I roll my eyes and hoist my bag up with a glare in his general direction. Petty? Maybe. I take my sweet time walking past his abandoned desk, glancing down to see what new masterpiece that Sharpie of his was responsible for. My breath hitches when I see it.

A wishbone. With the stem of a flower wrapped around one side.

A dahlia.

Fuck . I break into the hallway, heading directly to Stephanie’s locker, feeling so tense that my neck and shoulders are sore from it. It doesn’t take long for my best friend to materialize in a sunshine of blonde curls, and I force a smile as I meet her eyes, though I’m pretty sure it comes out looking more like a grimace.

“Rough day already, chickadee?”

I give a half-nod, half-shrug combo. “Fabulous.”

“Want to hole up in the locker room hall for lunch? We can totally avoid the cafeteria.”

Sweet Stephanie, always knowing what I need. “That would be stellar, actually.”

As we turn toward our next class, I spy Noah over Stephanie’s shoulder, talking and laughing with his posse of equally irritating friends. The suddenness with which our eyes meet through the crowd makes all the warmth drain from my body until I swear out those blue waters from my brain and whip my face forward.

Everything is totally fine. I’ve been doing fine, but then Noah had to go and ruin everything. Five months. Five months until graduation, until I can shed this skin into someone new, someone unburdened by wishbone doodles. I’ve come this far and I’ll be damned if I let anything hold me back now. A break is what’s best for both of us.

I pray for the semester to fly by at warp speed, that way I can bid farewell to this chapter of my life and embark on a new adventure, far, far away from Noah and his blinding red jacket.

Miracles do happen, apparently.

March blew in fast. The snow has officially thawed, making room for those warm, breezy spring days that lift my mood and warm up my heart. I tilt my face skyward, leaning back on my palms and soaking in the sunlight breaking through the tree branches as Stephanie, Tyler, and I have our first outdoor lunch in months.

After that disastrous first day back from break two months ago, we’d been eating in the hallway leading to the gym locker rooms, huddled against the cold brick walls, nibbling on our PB&J’s like sad little mice. The whole place reeked of gym socks, and I felt like a loser every time someone walked by and judged me for hiding from the world.

Honestly, I didn’t mind the solitude. After the implosion of everything, I kind of needed it. It was a chance to gather my thoughts and talk out loud to my best friends without the risk of anyone else overhearing.

Inevitably, those thoughts would drift back to Noah during those quiet pockets of the day. It’s something of an intrusive reflex. Am I even allowing myself to experience any moment of relaxation if I’m not using it as an opportunity to annoy myself over him?

I’d be a filthy liar if I said the sting of his absence has faded much over the past couple of months. My anger that powered those first few weeks of heartbreak has evaporated, but it’s been replaced by something else.

Regret, I think. For all the things left unsaid persistently hanging between us. The apologies that never made it past my lips, the conversations we let get strangled by our own demons, the love that I sealed up before I could say it.

There’s also this ambient discontent, an unsettled frustration at my inability to truly extract Noah from my consciousness no matter how hard I try to get rid of him. It’s a full psychic amputation. I can scab over and compartmentalize the wound all I want, but the pain is always there.

It’s masochistic, but I’m always morbidly wondering where Noah is emotionally right now—how he’s doing? Has he moved on from me with the same ease he does with any obstacle in his path?

I’ll never know the answers, and there are days where that eats me alive a little bit more than usual, but I’m trying to, I don’t know… Let those wounds scab fully without scratching them open in compulsive reenactments of self torture?

Today feels different, too. Either it’s all the grass turning green again, the resilient dandelions pushing through concrete, or it’s the sky, naked and blue, daring me to reach for it.

I’m trying. God, I’m trying to let these wounds heal. It’s a tightrope walk between remembering and obsessing, and I’m learning to balance, but I’m growing like those stubborn spring blooms

Today, I chose to be the dandelion.

I cross my legs under our favorite oak tree in the courtyard, its bare branches starting to sprout tiny green leaves. The earthy scent of dirt and grass fills the area, welcoming back the outdoors from all the recycled air we’ve been breathing all winter. Stephanie’s sitting to my right, her back against the brick wall that borders the quad, tapping her Keds against the grass as she picks at the gray meat the cafeteria claims is meatloaf.

I steal a grape tomato from Tyler’s salad, popping it in my mouth while he hums along to Coming Out Of The Dark . Boombox Mike has his radio in the center of a picnic table, surrounded by his trench coat crew, but it’s loud enough for me to hear. The lyrics, on top of tangy tomato juice on my tongue, makes everything taste like a fresh start.

The last time I sat out here eating lunch was with Noah. We’d shared a container of Toxic Waste, daring each other to keep a straight face while sucking on those sour little bastards for as long as we could. I remember the tears in his eyes from holding back laughter, his face glowing with humor and light and...

I dig my nails into my apple and take a big bite. The juice dribbles down my chin, dripping onto my Judas Priest T-shirt as my teeth tear into it like a rabid fucking squirrel.

Yeah, I’m healing real well.

Things are looking up too much for me to let Noah ruin my happy springtime vibes. I am a strong, independent woman who definitely does not peer pathetically across the classroom at him during English with the longing of an abandoned puppy anymore.

Nope, not me.

Totally 100% fine and independent.

It’s not that hard to get over someone when you don’t have to see each other at practice anymore, or run in the same social circles.

Liar . Okay, yeah, it still hurts to be near him in class. Things are still pretty fucking broken, but even though it didn’t work out the way I’d hoped, and we’re barely friends now, it’s weirdly comforting to know that I’m capable of feeling so deeply about another person. Especially when I originally thought I’d never feel for anyone the way I did for Harley.

I felt so much for Noah. So, so much . Profoundly. Embarrassingly so.

It’s nice to know that it wasn’t such a bad thing that I fell so hard and fast for him, because I learned a lot—not by experimenting , but by exploring and experiencing with him. Not just about sex, although I’d definitely learned a few things there, but about myself.

Like how sharing things about myself isn’t a bad thing, and that tiptoeing around someone else’s emotions to try to make myself smaller is never the answer. That I don’t need to doubt myself or hold back because I’m worried about what others think of me.

It was the past two months of introspection, sitting on my bed with my journal open on my lap, thinking about that fight and how I’d acted, that I acknowledged I’d been letting my past control my present. I’ve been so afraid of being hurt again, of being abandoned, that I was sabotaging my own chances at happiness, all because I couldn’t separate the ones who wanted to stick around from the ones who cut me up in my past.

Noah wasn’t my mom. He wasn’t Harley. He was his own person, with his own heart and his own story. I know that if I ever want a real shot at something good, I have to start seeing things that way.

I have to learn to trust again. Not right off the bat like an idiot, or else I’ll end up like Tyler getting his shoes stolen the first time he gave a stranger a ride, but bravely. I have to give people the chance to show me that they’re different.

Obviously, It’s not going to be a cakewalk. There will be setbacks and moments where I doubt everything, but I’m determined to try. So I picked up my pen and started to write, and I learned that not everything is always my fault, that it’s okay to let people in, even if it ends in judgment because being open and vulnerable isn’t a weakness. It's in that openness, the shared breath of laughter and tears, that blooms a strength where we find our truest selves.

Though being comfortable with singing out loud in front of other humans is still a work in progress, but maybe someday.

And even though I don’t feel like it a lot of the time, I am strong.

Strong as hell. Strong as an oak tree.

“Ugh, I swear this meatloaf is actually mushed up cafeteria socks,” Stephanie grimaces, dropping her spork down into the tray.

“It’s a mystery as to how the cafeteria can serve the same kind of slop without fail every day.” I laugh as I take my last bite of my apple. Tyler’s already inhaled his salad and is leaning forward with his arms crossed over his loose sweatshirt, eyeing Stephanie’s untouched slice of cake.

“I can’t even look at the food without feeling sick,” she sighs, glancing up at Tyler and shielding her tray. “No, you really can’t have it.”

“Oh come on, you’re not even going to eat that, let alone finish it.” Tyler gives her his most adorable, puppy-like eyes before raising an eyebrow. “You know how sweet I’ve been today. Give me a piece. One single bite.”

“Fine. Take a little piece, but that’s it.” Her mouth turns into a thin line. “I don’t want to see any frosting on your face or you’re dead.”

Predictably, Tyler’s definition of ‘one single bite’ stretches to the limit as he crams the whole thing in his mouth and finishes it in about two seconds.

Stephanie stares at him, her expression a perfect deadpan. “Wow, that was...” She shakes her head slowly. “You didn’t even pause.”

A few crumbs tumble from his lips. “You said I could have one bite and that was one bite. I did nothing wrong. It’s not my fault if my mouth is bigger than the average human’s.”

“I don’t know, I would say that was at least two bites. Maybe you should be arrested for cake fraud.”

Stephanie’s comment makes Tyler launch into a dramatic performance of being arrested by the dessert police. He falls on his side, dark hair falling in his eyes as he sprawls out on the grass, his hands clasped behind his back like he’s being handcuffed.

“Oh, no, I’m innocent! I’m being framed, I tell you! Framed!”

Then as he rolls around, he starts to mutter a poor imitation of the COPS theme song under his breath.

Stephanie loses it, cracking up so hard her tray slides right out of her lap. She’s laughing so much she’s wheezing, tears streaming down her face, and I’m right there with her, my head thrown back as I hold my stomach, trying to catch my breath.

“Are you trying to get attention or do you really have zero shame?” I ask once we’ve caught our breath, wiping away the wetness from the corners of my eyes. I’ve almost forgotten how much fun the three of us have when we’re goofing off at lunch alone, how many times we laugh until our sides hurt.

Tyler sits up, brushing bits of grass off his shoulder. “I would rather have zero shame, honestly. How boring it would be if I was normal.”

That, right there, is the essence of Tyler. He never gives a flying fuck what anyone else thinks, as long as he’s the happiest doing his own funky little style.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way.” I smile over at him. “Honestly.”

We all chuckle in our circle and I arch my neck back to the sky, basking in the warm breeze as it tickles my skin. Yeah, today is different. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this content and at peace.

“You know what I love about this?” I glance at each one of their faces. “It always feels so safe to be with you guys, no matter how shitty of a mood we’re in.”

My eyes slip shut, soaking in the sunbeams. It’s been weeks since the three of us had a chance to hang out together, and it feels fucking fantastic, especially with the added bonus of that sweet vitamin D replenishment.

“Speaking of feeling safe and secure… Are you still thinking of signing up for the Battle of the Bands?”

I crack one eye open to see Stephanie’s glossy lips part as she starts leaning over her knees. “You mean the one that’s barely over two months away?” I ask.

“Well, when you put it like that.” A tiny laugh as she brushes a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I guess it does sound crazy. You seemed so pumped about it before, so I thought for sure you’d want to, you know, sign up soon?”

The heels of my palms dig harder into the dirt. “Hard pass,” I dismiss with a shrug, trying to downplay the sting of that memory like it’s no big deal. It's all some remnants of someone else’s life. “If I’m being honest, I haven’t really been thinking about anything other than getting through the rest of the school year.”

Steph nods, her messy half-ponytail bobbing against the wall. “Fair enough. Have you figured out what you’re going to do after graduation?”

A sigh pushes its way out as I shred blades of grass between my fingers. “Not really. I’ll probably keep working shifts at the record shop and selling Johnny Cash albums to old dads.”

“Sounds like the dream, Rox,” Tyler grumbles, digging a package of cookies out of his bag.

My face eases a little as my shoulders come down to earth. “Oh, yeah? Because I was thinking of moving into a tent in the woods and surviving off fish and berries until I turn thirty.”

“Puh-lease.” Tyler snorts around a mouthful of Chips Ahoy. “You wouldn’t last thirty minutes out in the woods without being scared of literally every single plant, bug, and night sound. Especially not with your snake phobias.”

“Snakes are scary, okay! That’s a perfectly rational fear!” I protest, picking up a stick from the ground and twirling it between my fingers. “Maybe I’ll run away to New Orleans with my neck exposed and hope for a vampire to come find me.”

“Christ, not your New Orleans fantasy again,” Tyler groans, dodging the clump of dirt I chunk his way.

In all seriousness, without the chance of winning any money for a legitimate fresh start, I’m likely going to be trapped here until at least next winter. Slugging through each new day working retail and living off bargain bin SpaghettiOs while scraping together whatever pennies I can towards the dream of simply existing elsewhere.

I’ve managed to save $140 over the past two months, but this time, I made damn sure to keep my stash hidden at Stephanie’s house for safekeeping. It’s in a very nice Folgers coffee can stuffed inside one of her dresser drawers.

“You really don’t think you will be able to work it out?” Tyler asks then.

“What do you mean?”

“With the hottie who was in your—”

Stephanie lands a solid punch to Tyler’s bicep.

“Dude, harsh much!” she hisses as he yelps, cookie crumbs falling from his open mouth.

“Relax, it was a joke, I swear!” He scowls at her, cradling his arm.

I roll my eyes, stabbing at the dirt next to me with my stick. “It’s been two months. What do you think?”

Tyler’s Adam’s apple bobs nervously as Steph shoots him a death glare, and he shoves more cookies into his mouth at lightning speed to avoid another beating.

“You’re really going to let it fizzle out after everything?” Stephanie slaps at my stretched out knee, then presses in a whisper, “The sex was fireworks-level amazing though! That only happens with intense chemistry!”

“How would you know about ‘fireworks’ level sex?” I ask from over my can of Pepsi, trying not to spit it out when I see her lips twist to the side.

Tyler, on the other hand, has no such control. Cookie crumbs and lemonade spray everywhere, but that doesn’t stop him and I from both jolting forward and crawling closer to her. We each clasp a hand on one of her folded knees, leaning in.

“Stephanie Maurene Bell!” We both gasp. “You and Daniel ?”

She coughs nervously, appearing trapped between us. “Um, it was, like, the one time.” She blushes and pulls some of her hair into her mouth to chew on. “It wasn’t planned, and it was the first time for both of us, and we thought it should be with each other before we ran away to our opposite sides of the country.”

Tyler and I both grin like maniacs, clinging on to every word. “And? How was it?”

“It was good. It felt special. It felt right, like we were supposed to do it.” Now turning really pink, she brings a fresh strand of hair to her mouth. “But physically it felt like being prodded with a lead pipe. It hurt and honestly I felt nothing.”

“Nothing?” I frown. “What do you mean nothing?”

“It was like my feelings got the message, but my body never did. There was literally no pleasure on my end.” She wilts against the wall, moving on to chew on her lower lip with her teeth. “The whole experience basically felt like a wet firework and I don’t have any idea why people like it.”

I bark out a laugh, squeezing her knee. “Yeah, that’s how it was with Harley too.”

Stephanie perks up. “But Noah?” she queries with so much hopefulness, like it might be different for her too.

Now my face reddens. God, I really don’t want to talk about this. Not when I already feel the spring sunshine burning against my back.

“With Noah…” I hesitate, feeling itchy under both of their eyes. “It was different. It was good, really good, and really intense. I think that’s why I got too in my feelings about it though, and why things got a little too heavy and I let my emotions get the best of me.”

Stephanie snorts, plucking a dandelion and tucking it behind my ear. “Do you always have to overanalyze your feelings? Can’t you, I don’t know, feel something for once without the emotional autopsy?”

I open my mouth to fire back, then snap it shut. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re always dissecting your feelings and looking at every tiny detail. You’ve basically gotten your Master’s degree in emotions, and I have a feeling it’s made it harder for you to actually feel something.”

As if. I don’t always bury my feelings under logic. Whenever some emotions hit me—good, bad, or ugly—the first thing I do is scrutinize and pick apart each nerve ending under a microscope. Joy, grief, passion, they all get the same clinical examination. It’s nice to see if there is meaning as to why I’m feeling something I don’t understand.

Oh, fuck . Why do I do that to myself? What made me obsessed with defining the essence of my own feelings?

Right . Dad. After he died, every sentiment hurt so freaking much. I started to moderate the agony and confusion by categorizing gradients of emotional pain. If I understood the reasons and triggers, the core behind my bleeding heart, it didn’t gush quite so violently and made it more manageable. And then I knew how to handle it the next time it happened.

Knowledge helped cauterize the wounds when nothing else could.

“What exactly are you trying to say?” I ask, furrowing my brow.

“I’m saying feel, okay? Don’t worry about what that feeling means or why you’re feeling it. Just feel it.” Stephanie smiles, giving my shoulder a little shove. “I worry you’re missing out on the messy beauty of living sometimes, Rox.”

I lean back in my spot, plucking more grass and twirling it while sinking into thoughts. I suppose I’ve been going about this all wrong. I really do need to stop worrying so much about the whys and hows of my feelings, and let myself feel them. Easier said than done I suppose, but damn it sounds a lot less tiring and, if I do that, I bet I’ll be able to find that intimacy I’ve been searching for all along. Not even with others, but with myself too.

“Damn, Stephanie,” I whisper, offering her a smile. “That’s actually really good advice.”

“Preach!” Tyler adds through a mouthful of cookies, little crumbs spewing from the corner of his mouth. “Sometimes you gotta scream into the void, y’know? Feel your feelings and shit.”

I roll my eyes but have to laugh. “Wow, so wise, cookie monster.”

Stephanies punches his shoulder this time, cutting him a quick glance before turning back to me. “Anyways.” She sucks in a breath. “Speaking of feeling things… Battle of the Bands?”

“You’re not going to let this go are you?”

“I’m just saying, you still need the money, right? What if—” Stephanie suddenly springs off the wall, her eyes lighting up as she points to herself. “What if I joined the band with you? What if I was your singer?”

I blink in surprise. “You’d really want to try performing? Like, on a stage? In front of people?” Stephanie can sing, but she’s never done it outside of her living room with her mom, or my car.

“Totally! We could come up with something fun for the rock theme. And think, if we won, it would help you get back on track financially.”

I scoot away from them, leaning back against the oak tree. The rough bark snags on my faded tee as I sip my drink, my mind already starting to analyze as I poke at the idea like I do with my emotions apparently.

With Stephanie’s help, I could reclaim more than my dreams of moving out of this town. This could help me take back my voice too, give me one last thing to say to these people, to everyone there watching. This event is going to be huge, so it’s guaranteed to have everyone there. And I’ve sure got a lot to fucking say.

I nibble my lip, drumming my fingers on my thighs. “I’m not sure how we’d be able to accomplish only drums and singing while still having a shot at winning.”

Unless…

“Stephanie.” A slow, scheming smile creeps across my face for probably the first time in my life as I lean forward, elbows on my knees.

“Oh no. I don’t like that look in your eyes.”

“How do you feel about finally upgrading from the clarinet?”

Her eyes thin over at me, pursing her lips as she takes a long drink of her milk. “Fine. I owe you that, I guess.”

Right then, a burst of laughter pulls all of our attention across the quad.

Speak of the devil.

Noah struts into view, head thrown back in a carefree laugh, eyes crinkling at the edges like they used to with me. He looks good. Annoyingly good.

He’s walking with Daniel across the grass, his graphic tee folded at the sleeves to show off that double barbed wire tattoo around his arm, muscles shifting underneath skin as he lifts an apple up to his mouth. The juice trickles down his chin and he stops, jerking his chin out to keep it from dripping on him. My eyes drop down when he grabs the hem of his tee, flashing a large strip of lightly defined abdominal muscles as he lifts the fabric, using it to wipe at the bottom of his lip.

I lick my own lips, my Pepsi can sagging in my hands.

When I scan down the rest of his body, my thighs press together as I lean my full weight against the tree to support myself as he shakes his shirt out, showing off more of those abs that look more rock-hard than the last time I saw them. Touched them.

How can he still make me feel this way? I hate that I still think he’s fucking hot. It’s inevitable. Too inevitable that I can’t stop my eyes from falling to his belt buckle, to his wrist, up to his lips, to his eyes.

I may as well be sitting next to a campfire with the heat radiating off of him even from across the way, as if he’s some sort of heat emitting machine, like a furnace—only hotter.

My skin is going to melt off my bones being near his presence and the heat of the day.

He’s got a bit of a tan now, too. Probably from spending all that new free time on his bike or skateboarding now that the weather allows it. His hair’s a little longer, those two hazardous curls brushing the middle of his cheek. I wonder what he does with all his spare time now that he’s living with Principal Phillips—if he’s still with him.

As if he can sense he’s being watched— stalked —he turns fast to lock eyes with me, dragging his thumb across his bottom lip, and the weight of his attention presses on my skin.

Now what are you staring at, angel? I hear in his voice.

I curse and jerk back against the tree, immediately snapping my head toward Stephanie and chugging the soda in my hand. Something cataclysmic is happening inside of me. I realize now that I’m not strong enough to handle Noah Jackson.

Yeah, I needed out of this town yesterday.

“You know what?” I announce and Stephanie’s eyes meet mine over my Pepsi can. “Let’s do this.”

Battle of the Bands just got personal and became my own revenge body.