Internally, I wince. The photo of Sebastian, taken the night of the bonfire, has been on my mind more than Mr. Lee could possibly know. Of course, it’s a great picture. It’s the best fucking photo I’ve ever taken. I know that. Nevertheless, “I’ll just stick with the graffiti.”
Unable to bring myself to even look at the photos I’d taken of him, Mr. Lee and I have reached a tenuous compromise. Even though it’s still like picking at a raw, gaping wound, we’ve decided my shots from the car shows were the best compromise.
He looks disappointed, but finally slides the photo back into the folder. “You can start setting up your exhibit on Saturday morning. I know it’s not a lot of time, but you were a late addition. Can you swing that?”
I assure him I can, even though I’ve lost all enthusiasm for it. It’s not all because of the way my chest feels like it’s caving in, pretty much every second of every day. It’s not all because of Sebastian. It’s not even because of my mom. It’s not because, in the span of a single day, I lost every bit of footing I’ve ever had. My past, my present, and now my future.
Mr. Lee is right. My car show pieces are good—some of them are even amazing—but most of them are just okay. Pedestrian. Formulaic. Entirely without feeling or substance. It’s a mediocre display of my capabilities.
But it’s all I can do.
Later that day, I’m back in my dorm, staring down at them, the spread of photos blurring into one indefinable blob of gray. It’s stupid. I don’t have time to keep waffling on this. The exhibit is in two days. It should be hard to dwell on the way my insides feel hollowed out when I’m so busy, but there are times when it still feels like I’m doing nothing but treading water.
Every night, before falling into a fitful rest, I think the next day will better. It can’t always be like this. One day, I’ll have to wake up and not feel this churning twist of grief and anger.
Hasn’t happened yet.
It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic. I’m pretty sure by now everyone around me knows it, too. Hell, even Mr. Lee knows it. Every time I lay in bed at night, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, only for Georgia to suddenly lean into my line of sight with that troubled look on her face, I know she’s thinking it. When Vandy links her arm with mine in the halls, determined to touch me even though it turns me into a mess of tangled things—taking it upon herself to adopt Sebastian’s quest of making me better—I know she’s thinking it, too. When Carlton approaches me at the lunch table, offering to slip me a little something to smooth out the rough edges, it’s because he’s thinking it.
I should be stronger than this. No one wants to be the girl whose whole life is consumed by some asshole guy. Especially one like Sebastian. As much as it hurts—all the fucking time, day and night—it’s also so goddamn mortifying that I fell for him, hook, line, and pretty-boy sinker.
It helps that life at Preston runs full steam ahead. When I’m not in class or studying for an exam, I’m prepping for the art exhibit, or listening to speculation about who pulled the prank at the basketball game. My break-up becomes old news as other drama unfolds among the students. Things move fast here. Which may be part of the problem. Sebastian Wilcox rolled over me like a rogue wave, cloaked by the darkness of the night sky, dragging me under until I couldn’t find my way to the surface again.
“Which one do you like best?” My rusty voice asks Georgia, holding out two black and white proofs. I took it the night at the mall. It’s of Jasmine, mid-curve, the shape of her silhouette transforming from the sleek, organic curve to a rigid, straight line. She’s going so fast that the shape is blurred at the edges. One version is a crisp black and white, while the other has kept the red saturation of the taillight’s eerie glow.
“Hmm.” She taps her pen against her lips. “I think I like the splash of color. It looks kind of retro, don’t you think?”
I look at the one she chose, preferring it, too. Of course, I would. It’d started out as my exhibit’s main aesthetic—black and white with selective pops of color—but that was back when my exhibit was still worth having.
My phone vibrates with a text and Georgia watches curiously as I read it. “It’s Vandy,” I explain. “She says he’s at lacrosse all afternoon, so we’re clear to go to the garage. She’s going to pick me up in five minutes to drive me over.”
Georgia frowns at the word ‘he’, pushing to her feet. “I’m coming, too. Let me get my shoes.”
I almost ask her not to bother, but the thought of saying it feels rude. Georgia has been a good friend—a better friend than I deserve. At first, all she and Vandy wanted to do was talk about what happened. I humored them for a while, going over it again and again…
The sex was fine, just not worth all the bullshit, truthfully.
They were determined that if they analyzed every word that transpired between us—every action—they’d be able to figure out why Sebastian dumped me like that. But after a couple days, I couldn’t take it anymore. Each time I went over it, repeating his cruel words, remembering his cold, flat stare, the heavy thing sitting on my chest burrowed in a little deeper. Eventually, I put my foot down and told them they had to stop obsessing over it, because I needed to stop obsessing over it. They aren’t the ones who have to walk around with this constant, yawning fissure inside them. They don’t wake up at night with wet cheeks, and in a moment of humiliating weakness, wonder why they weren’t good enough. What they said wrong. What they did or didn’t do. How they could have been better. If there were ever any hints that this was all just some sick game.
They don’t go around wishing that he’d look at them, just once.
That’s all on me.
Thankfully, they both respected my decision. But it seems like their fixation just shifted slightly to the side. Since then, they haven’t stopped talking about Sydney and the video they suspect Heston has on her. This seems to have struck a nerve with both of them, and it’s no surprise they’re discussing it, again, on the way to the garage.
“It’s just so crazy,” Vandy says. “That day Sugar and I saw her talking to Fiona, she seemed so weirdly proud of those bruises. Right, Sugar? I mean, she acted like she was pretty into it.”
“That’s what he does,” Georgia says from the backseat. I recognize this tone of voice from her now—low, a little too carefully controlled. She’s getting pissed, just talking about it. “You’re excited he’s giving you attention. He’s good-looking, popular, and smart. Who are you? Some nobody. You feel so lucky that he’s interested, you spend most of your time with him trying not to mess it up. Doing whatever it takes to make him like you—to make him happy. You go into it willingly, and then when he has sex with you…the way he…” she swallows, “…you know it’s not okay, but by then it’s too late. By the time you realize what really happened, it’s over and done.”
“You were a Freshman, Georgia. There’s no way you could have anticipated that.” Georgia glances at her in the rearview mirror. “Sydney is a little older, but she’s super immature. After being rejected by Reyn and Seb—him,” she glances apologetically at me, “I’m sure she was ready to prove herself. What better person than his brother?”