I already know what it is.
Snatching the bag and blowing out a hard breath, I unravel the rumpled top and peek inside. Another cupcake stares back at me, looking just as appealing as the last one.
This one has a cherry on top.
And motherfucking sprinkles.
I toss it back onto the countertop, knowing damn well I’m going to eat the hell out of it later, and collapse onto the toilet seat, ruffling my hair with one hand.
My tools lie strewn about the new tile flooring, beckoning me to get back to work, but all I can think about is sitting all alone in that foster house, rooted to a flimsy mattress that reeked of mildew. I didn’t even have a pillow. All I had were my dark thoughts and a hell of a lot of scars.
I swallow, thinking back to my years in that house.
There was so much noise, so much chaos, so many kids running round, screaming and laughing.
Nobody ever noticed I was there.
Nobody except for Bree.
As I lose myself in old memories and bleak thoughts, my eyes land on the cupcake bag again, and I grit my teeth, knowing exactly what it means.
She sees me.
—TEN—
“The song, Unchained Melody.”
I fist the hem of my blush blouse between my fingers, sinking into sweet memories. I love discussing starting points. I love acknowledging the power of simple things—things we don’t even realize are important to us.
Ms. Katherine offers her kind smile, clutching the leather-bound journal to her chest. I’m not sure if she’s ever even used it, but she brings it to every meeting. “The Righteous Brothers. One of my favorites.”
“It’s kind of old school, I know, but my parents named me after that song. It was their song.”
“And now it’s your song,” she concludes, her grin broadening.
“Yes. I guess so.” A warmth sweeps through me as I recall standing on my father’s loafers and slow-dancing to the classic ballad in our living room while Mom made dinner in the kitchen. The savory scents of garlic, butter, and sauteed onions would always beckon us to the table before the song was over, but Dad would wave his silverware in the air, mimicking the epic crescendo at the end, and I would laugh, while Mom would just shake her head at him.
I decide in that moment that I’ll go visit them tonight after the meeting.
“I don’t think I know that song,” Amelia adds, leaning back in her chair with crossed legs. She’s wearing all black like she always does, and her eyeliner is winged and purple, matching the streaks in her hair. “I’ll have to listen to it.”
I turn to my left, gifting her a smile. It’s impossible not to notice Parker on the other side of her, bent over with his elbows to his knees, watching me. He always watches me when I give my starting points, almost as if he’s soaking up every word. It’s confusing.
He doesn’t watch anyone else.
“You should,” I tell Amelia. “It’s a little dated for your generation, but it’s really beautiful.”
She nods, lowering her eyes and picking at her fingernails.
Amelia and I became Lifelines at a recent meeting, exchanging phone numbers and addresses. While I can’t imagine ever feeling the way I did on that dark, dark night, knife in my hand, heart in my throat, I feel safer with Amelia’s number saved into my phone. Desperation seeps in unplanned sometimes, blackening our veins until all we feel is… done.
I never want to feel done.
I’m not ready.
I know I’m not ready yet.
We take our fifteen-minute break, and Amelia leans over to me, holding out the underside of her arm. “Do you ever compare scars?” she wonders aloud, her arm twisting side to side, a spattering of scars illuminated by the recessed lighting.
Amelia’s arms are usually covered by black sleeves, so I’ve never noticed the puckered marks underneath, alarmingly striking against her porcelain skin. I pull my lips between my teeth and shake my head. “No. That’s like comparing tragedies. Pain is pain.”
She smiles softly. “Can I see yours?”
“Oh, um…” Tinkering with my sleeve, I fidget in place, gripped by a wave of insecurity. I’m not proud of my scar. It’s not a noble battle wound or honorable trophy. It’s evidence of my weakness—my lowest point. But I nod anyway, lifting the fabric until my own scar is revealed, a jagged, ugly blemish carved into my skin by my own design. I gulp, looking away. “I’m embarrassed by it.”
“You are? I think it’s beautiful.”
My head jerks toward her, my brows knitting together. “It’s horrifying. It’s… sad.”
“Sad things can be beautiful,” she counters. Amelia’s eyes case over the ghastly scar that travels midway up my arm. “Scars tell a story. We’re storytellers, you and me.”
The lump in my throat swells. “You did that to yourself?”
“Yeah, I’m a cutter. Most cutters try to hide their scars, but not me. Every one of these little scars tells a story,” Amelia explains, her smile still etched upon her amethyst-tinged lips. “They’re kind of like tattoos, you know? Only, I’m the artist. And no one really knows what they mean except for me.” Her grin broadens, almost eerily. “I’m decorated in beautiful secrets.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Parker shakes his head with a miserable groan that he can’t quite hide. He’s slouched down in his seat, legs sprawled out in front of him like usual, matching his “I don’t give a crap” attitude. His eyes are closed now, but his ears are clearly taking in our conversation.
Amelia notices, wondering, “You don’t agree, Parker?”
One eye opens, then the other, and he stares straight ahead and sighs. “I think anyone who finds pleasure in carving themselves up needs therapy far more advanced than this three-ring circus that has nearly enticed me to jump off the nearest bridge a lot more frequently than my own misery, which is literally the opposite of its purpose.”
If she’s offended by his tirade, it doesn’t show. “Maybe cutting is my therapy,” Amelia tells him, her inflection still soft and amiable. “Not everyone heals in the same way.”
“That’s not healing,” he mumbles. “That’s an excuse. That’s a justification to remain stunted and stagnant because you’re too lazy to put in the actual work to get better.”
Amelia finally flinches back, as if his words physically slapped her.
Parker rises from the chair, his gaze flicking to me, then back to Amelia. “There’s nothing beautiful about pain and suffering. Anyone who thinks otherwise never truly experienced it.”
My chest constricts with labored breaths, my throat tightening at his words. Amelia remains silent, scuffing her knee-high boots against the linoleum and avoiding my stare. “I’ll be right back,” I croak out, instinctually standing from my own seat and following Parker over to the snack table, where he’s aimlessly spinning the little carousel of coffee selections.
“That wasn’t helpful,” I say, my words sharp, but my tone gentle.
“No?” Parker uses one finger to sort through the different flavors, not bothering to look over. “I disagree.”