When I squish, sodden, into the house, I'm hoping to avoid Marco. But my luck's run out: he's home early from work and in the living room.
He's gray-streaked worry, tightly wound, and it makes me nervous because I haven't figured out what kind of guy he is yet.
For most of my life, Marco was a guy in a leather jacket in a black-andwhite photo—the only one my mom kept of him to show me—dark and remotely cool, like a man from an ad or something. A cigarette dangled from his smiling lips as he gazed at the camera like he loved whoever was behind it.
He was frozen in my memory in black-and-white in that cool vintage leather jacket. An idea, more than a person. And now he's a person to me, and maybe now I'm a person to him; we're not possibilities to each other anymore, and it sucks. I don't know what to do with it. I don't think I can love him. I don't know how. I don't know him.
He rises from the couch, taking me in. My hair's still sopping and my shoes are going to take a day to dry out.
"What happened to you?" he asks in concern.
"I took a dip in the lake," I say, walking past the row of guitars hanging in the hallway, me squelching with each step.
"Wait a second!" he protests, following me. "Lisa, are you okay?"
I turn around, trying not to feel humiliated and failing miserably.
"I did what you told me. I made some friends. Now I really need to clean up, okay?"
Before he can sputter an answer, I duck into the bathroom and close the door loud enough to make a statement. At least he won't bother me in here.
I turn on the shower, the steam from the water slowly filling the room as I peel out of my wet boots and socks, and then slowly peel off my jeans. Wet jean chafing is an experience I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Well. Maybe Kai. If he's experiencing the same chafing issue as me, then there is some justice in the world. But I don't have a lot of faith in that, unfortunately.
I peel off my tank top, and that's when I see it, standing there in my bra and underwear in a bathroom that's so clearly a dude's bathroom. The smear of ink on my arm.
"Oh no. No. No!" I stare at my arm, the phone number and screen name Jennie scribbled on it bleeding ink down my skin. My arm must've brushed against my wet clothes as I walked.
"Fuck!" I angle my arm to the light, trying to make out the blurred numbers. But it's just black ink ghosting to gray across my skin.
I sit down on the edge of the tub, the knot in my stomach tightening unbearably.
"Fuck," I say again, just to say it, because if I don't, I think I might cry.
And that's so stupid, right? I can make friends when school starts in August. Or I can just stay a loner. I don't need ...
I don't need anything. Or anyone.
Not anymore.
I don't.
***
When I wake up the next morning, the first thing I see is the notebook still on my stomach. Four pages full of scribbled-down numbers and possible screen names, trying to remember what Jennie wrote on my arm.
So yeah, I didn't give up after I accidentally smeared it all up. Pitiful, right?
I just ...
I dunno.
It was like forgetting for a second. That everything isn't shit. Talking to her, I mean.
And I don't want to forget everything. I don't want to forget my mom.
CZYTASZ
New Girl in Town
RomansJenLisa AU. It's summertime and 16-year-old Lisa is forced to move to rural Oregon with her father after just losing her mother, she is in no position to risk her already fragile heart. But when she meets Jennie, the attraction is immediate. Jennie...