TMI (2014 Collector's Dream Winner)

TMI - Chapter 45

Megan stared at the computer monitor with blurred eyes, watching status updates scroll by like the credits at the end of a movie.

Or the end of a friendship.

It had been weeks since that end. Even the senior class’s graduation didn’t kill the buzz about her brush with the law in the main office, like it was a scene from that same movie instead of her life. The pain chewing its way through her heart still plagued her though it had dulled. Guess she’d just gotten used to it.

She’d had plenty of experiencing getting used to pain.

She thought about her dad and shook her head with a sad smile. He’d been right all along. The only one she could count on was herself. He’d drummed that into her head over and over since she was born but had she listened? First, she’d lost him and that was the first set of teeth to gnash at her heart. Then there was Chase. Oh, she’d tried. She’d tried so hard to stay unaffected — to push him away — to protect herself, yet somehow, he’d sneaked in. Nibble. Nibble Nibble. But the Bailey stuff — oh, she’d never seen that coming. She’d been so careful. She’d never sought popularity and social status and saw little value in having dozens of acquaintances. She’d allowed herself one friend. One really good friend.

And the loss of that friend was the final set of jaws to chomp through her heart strings.

Abruptly furious, Meg jumped up and paced her room, sick of this pointless wallowing. She headed to the stack of canvases in the corner, found the portrait she’d done of Bailey with her game face on, thumbs blurring over the controller. She studied it critically, the oils she’d painted on a smoky blue background. Nailing the color of Bailey’s honey-blonde hair had been almost as hard as getting Chase’s eyes right, but she’d done it. Titanium white, burnt sienna, and burnt umber, with pale blue for the highlights and violet for the lowlights, the hair looked like it could be brushed. It was beautiful. One of her best.

Meg fisted her hand, pulled back her arm, ready to smash through Bailey’s face and then changed her mind. She crossed the room, fished around in her closet for the small toolbox and found a hammer, tape measure, a couple of D-rings and some wire. She measured and marked, attached the rings to the back of the canvas, and looped a length of wire to each. With a swoop of her arm, she cleared her bed of pillows and climbed on top of it, the hammer under her arm, a hook in her mouth, and the canvas in her hand. She nailed the hook into the wall over her bed to carefully suspend the canvas.

It would look down on her from that spot of prominence, a daily reminder of what can happen — what did happen — when she didn’t listen to her dad.

She put the tools back in their box and the box back in her closet and then stared at the portrait, steeling herself against the burn. Easier all the time. She forced her eyes away, thought about watching TV, maybe reading a book, but neither held much interest. She could hear the clock ticking in the hall, a nagging reminder of her deadline and knew she should paint. But even that failed to excite her. She wandered to the huge window, stared down at the Gallagher’s back yard. The lawn had been cut, she noticed. She supposed Dylan had done it now that Chase was gone.

She had to steel herself against that burn, too. He’d graduated and, as he’d planned, had moved to the city with his team mates.

He never said good-bye.

Meg tore her gaze from the window and returned to pacing around her room. The monitor caught her eye again and the burn in her chest flared white-hot for a moment.

Bailey had updated her status. A dozen — a hundred — a hundred dozen times, she’d tried to unfriend Bailey but couldn’t click the damn button.