He laughs, like I’ve made such a hilarious joke.
“What makes you think there’s only one?” I gawk at him as he stalks toward the door, announcing over his shoulder, “I’m done here. No reason to stick around unless you’re hungry for some dick. I’m sure that popped-collar motherfucker that’s always creeping in here doesn’t get the job done…”
Although I’m already scanning the room for creepy hidey holes, I jerk back in disgust. “Screw you.”
His chuckle is so dark, a shudder ripples through me. “Maybe someday, bitch, but I won’t stop when you tap out.”
With that, he storms out the door, leaving me shaking with fury. Slamming my door shut, I make sure to lock it even though I know that will never be enough to keep out the monsters. Then, I take several deep breaths as I destroy the newest camera before making my way into my closet to change into sweatpants and a t-shirt—just like I told Loni I would.
It all seems so normal that my stomach churns.
Once I’m dressed, I return to Loni’s room and plaster a bright smile on my face before I knock on her door. When she answers, I’m careful not to let any of my distress show. I won’t let Ghost ruin my chance of fixing things with her.
Once I’m inside, we stare at each other for a long moment, neither of us quite able to think of what to say. My confession from the other night is the elephant in the room that we’re at once trying to avoid and figure out how best to navigate.
Finally, I just can’t take it anymore. “I’m sorry,” I blurt. “About the other night.”
She exhales deeply, then reaches forward to give my hand a tight squeeze. “Mal … it’s okay.” From the way she blinks when she says that, it’s obvious she just surprised the hell out of herself. “I was just … well, shit. I don’t know what I was, but I didn’t mean to run away like I did.”
“No, it’s understandable,” I quickly say before she has a chance to apologize. “That was a lot, I get it.”
Dropping my hand, she wrings her fingers together until her skin turns red. “Trust me, I’m glad you told me. It explains … a lot. Can I ask you something, though?”
“Of course.” I follow after her as she moves to sit on her bed. Folding my legs beneath me, I wait for her question as she tosses her Roku remote between her hands.
“Is that why Mr. Porter came here? Because of the fire?”
I lower my gaze to her bedspreads when I nod. “Yeah,” I whisper, that single word singeing my tongue and lips. “H-he wanted answers for James’s death and …”
I trail off because I can’t tell her the rest. I’m too ashamed of what Dylan and I were and what we did together. A part of me longs to tell her about the affair, that the baby that Laurel’s spent months mocking me about was his, but that’s so much on top of everything else I’ve already told her. Maybe someday.
Someday, I’ll gather enough courage to do it, but for now, all Loni needs to know is Dylan was a grieving man who blamed me for his only sibling’s death and rightly so.
“He knows you set the fire?”
“I’m not sure what he believes,” I murmur, gathering a handful of my t-shirt and twisting it into a knot. “He knew the police were supposed to raid our house that day, which is why my mom had told me to get rid of the evidence. I … I panicked.”
Looking back on that night now, I’m able to picture at least a dozen other solutions that wouldn’t have left my best friend dead and my life in shambles.
Jenn would never have run.
Nora would never have found us.
And I would have never found out who I really am.
When I finally glance up from stretching and tugging at my t-shirt, Loni releases a big whoosh of air, her dark eyes wide and unblinking. “Dude.”
“Yeah.” I hold my breath, waiting to see if she explodes or goes cold on me. I’m certain Loni had a certain image of me as a victim and I’ve just shattered it. I’m not a victim. I destroyed things. People. Lives.
To my complete and utter relief, she bobs her head and simply says, “Okay.”
She’s not pushing me away.
Holy shit.
“You’re … you’re not freaking out?”
Tension pulls at her shoulders as she lifts them in a helpless shrug. “I’m processing everything, and that’s probably going to take a little bit of time, but I’m not going to stop being your friend. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did, you know,” I softly say.
Now, she’s gripping the remote so hard her knuckles are turning pale. “I know you wouldn’t. That’d be pretty shitty all the same, though. I know your life hasn’t been easy. I’m not going to judge the things you’ve been forced to do to survive. You’re a good person, Mallory. I know you are.”
Tears prick at my eyes. “Loni—”
“Stop,” she shakes her head, her own voice choked. “If you cry, then I’m going to cry. So stop it.”
I nod but I turn away so she won’t see me swiping at my face. “Okay. I won’t. I promise.”
“Good.”
We meet each other’s gazes and smile, and I feel better. Even Ghost’s unwanted visit and threats don’t seem as ominous anymore, now that I know I’ve still got Loni on my side.
“Still up for a movie?” Her voice softly cuts through my thoughts, and I find myself nodding eagerly, desperate for normalcy in such a fucked-up world.
“Please.”
15
The next morning when school resumes, I’m feeling better, even though Laurel and her loyal flock of were-sheep continue to mock my battered face.
“I think it’s an improvement,” Laurel announces as I pass her table at breakfast. When I pivot around to face her, she licks the yogurt off her spoon and gives me a slow, satisfied grin.
“Practicing what we talked about, I see,” I say, but my fingers tighten around my tray. “Deep throat a few more of those and maybe your daddy really will leave your stepmom.”
She ends the giggles that fly up around her table with a well-executed glare, though I’m sure she’ll make them pay later. “Purple and black truly are your colors, Mallory.”
Embracing pettiness like it’s my best friend, I lift a hand to the braid dangling over my left shoulder and twirl the end around my fingertip. “Just like brunette and red are Saint’s, huh?”
She sucks in a breath. “Drop dead, cunt.”
Winking down at her, I start to leave, barely dodging Nadia Horne, who’s had it out for me since she threw a basketball at my face the first official day of school.
Wrinkling her nose at my bruises, she slams down in her seat and flutters her lashes up at me. “Serves you right, you nasty home-wrecker.”
Then, with a sweep of her hand, she sends her soy milk flying in my direction where it luckily misses me and ends up splattered all over the tiles.
“You should have made the bitch clean it up with her tongue,” Laurel is hissing when I walk away, but I don’t care as I spot my friends across the cafeteria.