The back door flings open, crashing against the outer wall and making me jump. I tear my gaze away from Donny to see who's come out.
Malcolm. He's all glares as he looks at us. At me, actually. When his gaze shifts to Donny, his glare eases up a bit to almost a frown.
"Uh, Marney."
"Hmm," I mumble and look back at Donny as he snakes his arm around my shoulders. His murky blue eyes are turned away but my heart still stutters. His cheeks are tinted with a light pink, and his lips have more color in them, too. My face feels as if it matches.
"She's fine," he says.
I nod to no one in particular. A shiver climbs up my back and arms as a little bit of heat recedes. How late is it anyway? All the street lights and house lights are one, which means it's not bedtime late. But it must be past 8 o'clock. For the first time since.. whenever, I wonder where everyone else is. The house is still empty. I don't even see Reese when I peek inside. A party with no guests isn't a par-tay. It's not even a part. I giggle at my own joke, drawing the attention of both Malcolm and Donny to me. Biting my lip, I stifle the remainder behind my teeth.
Malcolm's big eyebrows knit together, "Marney?"
"I'm fine," I say with a shrug. And I am. I know what I'm doing. Rule number.. three? Wait, no – rule two. There was – er, is a third but hell if I remember what it is. Some of my hair gets blown into my face with a small gust of wind. I bring my hand up to sweep it away, but Donny catches me by the wrist.
"What happened?"
"Huh?" I squint at him and shake my head. He nudges his head toward my hand.
In the center of my right palm is a smear of fresh blood. It's still dripping out around a large, almost toothpick size splinter, imbedded in my pale skin. "Oh."
Malcolm appears beside me, practically wrenching my wrist free of Donny's grip so he can inspect my palm as well. I want to resist him because, well, that's rude, but my muscles feel stringy and useless.
"Must've been from the table," I mutter with a shrug.
"Come on," Malcolm says. "Let's go clean this up."
I let Malcolm lead me away from Donny without a second thought, my mind too wrapped up in the fact that I sorta resemble a pin cushion. The skin around the base of the splinter is pink with irritation where it isn't slick with blood. And walking is difficult in my heels and bone-chilled legs. I wobble like a newborn deer. It's not until we're at the door that I even think about looking at him.
The bad guy is posted up beside the picnic table still, a red cup in either hand. I catch his gaze and a smile flutters to my lips. He appears to return it, but it appears predatory somehow. Which is kind of a weird thought that makes me squint. Donny says something like 'see you in a few,' but we're inside and Malcolm is already closing the door when he opens his mouth to speak.
"What the hell?!" Malcolm whirls around and glares at me.
I jump back from him, gaining freedom from his grip. "What?"
"Why did you kiss him?"
"Ooohh," I say aloud, mainly to myself. I'd actually sort of forgotten about that. My mind flashes fresh with the sensations, my cheeks gaining heat and knees losing strength. I settle into a chair and bite back a smile.
"Well?"
"I don't know," I say in a low voice. It sounds more ashamed than I think I actually feel, but I don't make a move to correct it. Let him think what he will.
"Just be glad Reese wasn't here to see—"
"Why?"
Malcolm jolts, his expression softening a bit. "Huh?"
"Why does it matter if he saw or not?"
"Because," he says, as if that one word answers the question. After a second, he tosses up his hands and repeats the word in a higher octave.
Whatever. It's not like Reese and I are dating. Until he makes a move to be exclusive, I am allowed.. to.. um. My mind runs short as I tug at the hem of my dress with my good hand. That's not me. That's not how I think or what I believe. Grimacing at the splinter, my stomach swirls about in a queasy fashion. Clumsily, I bring my feet up and unstrap my heels. My feet are numb with cold and from the shoes. Wiggling my toes to return some of the feeling, I take a deep breath and look up at Malcolm.
"I don't know," I repeat, unsure of what else to say. It's not like I can explain that good ol' Marney is just a shadow of her former self; that who he sees is a puppet.
Malcolm rolls his eyes. "Wait here," he says in an exasperated tone.
After he disappears, I hunch back into the chair. Now he's mad at me. And why shouldn't he be? He has every right to be. My heart lunges up into my throat in a way that makes the queasy swirls double up – what about Reese? He'll hate me, I just know it.
"Give me your hand."
I do as Malcolm kneels beside me. With careful movements, he removes the splinter from my palm then lightly presses a damp cloth over the wound.
"Thank you," I say in an almost inaudible voice.
He glances up, those pale blue eyes locking onto mine as we look at one another.
I should tell him. Malcolm would understand, wouldn't he? I study those eyes as he continues the slow swipes over my palm. Would he? Would anyone?
Sighing, I break eye contact first to hunch over and lean my head back against the wood. No. If anyone were to find out about the truth, they wouldn't understand. How could they? It would seem selfish and shallow. I would go from interesting new girl to liar who plays with hearts. It is selfish.
As I study the ceiling, which is tilting slowly back and forth, I question how I even got sucked into this whole makeover game. Someone intelligent should have been able to see that it was a bad freaking idea.
You mean someone that's obviously not you?
I sigh in defeated agreement. Someone other than me...
"All done," Malcolm says as he hauls himself to his feet.
I force myself to sit up and grab his hand. He freezes and glances down at our hands, tilting his head to the side. "Don't tell him," I say as he looks at me.
"What?"
"Please." I bite my bottom lip to keep it from shivering. "Don't tell Reese about the kiss."
He frowns at me. "Why'd you do it?"
"Please, just keep it between you and me."
"I mean," he trails off with a shrug. After a moment of studying my face, he kneels down and pats my hand in an almost patronizing fashion. I gulp down a fowl bit of irritation and wait, hopeful.
"If you don't want me to, then I won't."
I smile, a bit of moisture brimming my eyes that I quickly blink back. "Thanks."
"Sure," he says, adding, "What are friends for?"
Ignoring a heart flip, I hold my smile. My injured hand rises up from my lap and presses against his cheek. I'm not sure why; friends don't caress friends. He doesn't move away from me. A thick gulping sound is his only response until he slightly rubs his cheek against my palm. It stings but not enough to break contact.
I catch myself leaning forward and quickly correct. "Thank you," I whisper because I don't know what else to do, and if I do nothing, I'll kiss him. I just know it. And friends don't kiss friends.
Malcolm seems to feel the moment's lost. Another borderline patronizing pat to the back of my hand is his response before he hauls himself to his feet.
A flicker of light in the backyard catches my eye. I glance up to see Donny emerge from the garage. He's looking at me through the window, his face too distant and blurry to read.
A second, heftier heart flip catches my breath in my chest. My thoughts swirl up into a fresh spin as I let go of Malcolm's hand and stand up.
What a mess I've created.