Beautifully Ruined (7 page)

Their heads snap in my direction, almost as if they forgot I was here, standing no more than five feet away from them.

“You shouldn’t have heard that,” Noah says.

“But what do you mean?” I beg, walking up to them. “About my future?”

“I can’t tell you, Joey.” A tear rolls down Ivy’s cheek as she stares at me, sadness in her eyes. “Remember how much we love you.”

“Is this real?” I ask, holding my hands out to my sides to feel the wind blow and graze my skin. Suddenly, I can feel the grass beneath my bare feet. I can feel the blades brush against my bare legs, the petals graze against my skin. What wasn’t real before is real now and it surrounds me endlessly.

Noah stares at Ivy whose mouth drops open, as if to say something, but quickly closes. The brother and sister share a look between them before turning their twin eyes back to me.

“We’ll see you again, Joey,” Ivy tells me as a promise, slowly fading from sight.

“We promise you, little sister.” Noah fades from sight just as slowly, leaving me standing alone in the field.

The wind rustles the grass and flowers around me, swaying the blades and petals against my legs, tickling my senses.

I am alone. I am alone in a place I don’t know.





By the time I wake and my body emerges from its sleepy abyss, I’m shaking. My body won’t stop. It’s as if a cold breeze swept through the room, leaving a trail in trembling limbs, but my window’s closed and locked—has been for weeks now—protecting me from anything and everything on the other side of the glass or the other side of the alley.

The nights of leaving my window open are done and gone.

But I need to check.

I won’t know until I check.

Sometimes, I rub salt in my own wounds.

I fling back the covers from my legs and walk to the window, yanking on the cord to wrench the venetian blinds up. The screeching sound floats through the early morning air. It’s somewhat similar to the sound of nails dragging down a chalkboard. At least, that is what I think at two in the morning.

As expected, the window is closed tight and locked.

I brace against it with my hands, feeling the bite of chill against my skin. It comforts me. Fully waking me.

I’m alert, pressing my forehead against the glass. Being near the window helps me breathe.

I take a breath. The deeper the better.

The light across the alley catches my attention and I find myself staring through his window, watching his movement—a movement that’s become so familiar to me through the years, I could map it in my sleep. His hand glides through the air as his bitten lip pops away from his teeth. His dark hair tied back, away from his eyes so he can focus all of his attention on the world he’s creating.

There’s nothing on this planet more beautiful than Zephyr painting. There’s nothing more important than him in his element. He’s so at home, so peaceful,
I
want to paint him, I want to capture the moment forever. A simple picture on my phone wouldn’t do him justice, wouldn’t capture this moment as I see it. It’d need something more.

I bet he wouldn’t even notice me in the window—like a lovely creeper. What the hell am I saying? I know he doesn’t. Zephyr’s right in the zone; he’s in his own world where there’s nothing but paint, him, and his idea.

What is he painting?
The words drift through my mind without my permission. A present thought whenever I see him like this.
If only I could see it, just take a quick peek…

But I no longer have the privilege or luxury. It isn’t my right.

I lower the blinds before lowering my head and sulking back to my bed, crawling beneath the still-warm sheets and hoping sleep claims me quick, but I’m still wide awake by the time my alarm goes off.

Awake and alert. I’m even aware that the boy next door is still awake.

I didn’t realize until this morning I never told Milo what time to arrive to take me to school.
Not my brightest moment
. I did remember to text Kennie to tell her I had a ride today but completely spaced on telling the new ride—my new
chauffeur
—when I was ready.

But he was already in my driveway, rocking along to an Otep song I haven’t heard in a while. It was a great welcome, a great way to start my morning—with some
Confrontation
.

Let’s see how long this good mood lasts.

I climb into his car, tucking my backpack between my legs and pulling the seatbelt across my torso, yawning wide as he pulls from my driveway, passing Jamie and Zephyr as they pile into her little car. Their eyes on us as we pass.

“Your neighbors look familiar,” Milo comments when he stops at the sign at the end of the street, a red car passes in front of us before Milo turns onto the road.

“They go to our school,” I explain vaguely, focusing my eyes out the passenger window.

Milo looks to me, blonde hair blowing from the open driver’s side window, flailing around his head.

“Why don’t you ride to school with them?” he asks. It’s a typical question, a logical question. A question I don’t want to answer at six o’clock in the morning. There’s an explanation I don’t want to delve into.

What can I say?
I used to
. How does that explain anything easily?

“We don’t get along.” Not entirely untrue—it’s more like I have no idea where I stand with them. Zephyr: I am pretty sure it’ll take us a while before we’re even classified as
friends
. Jamie: Not a clue how she feels about me since I broke her brother’s heart, which essentially broke her brother. She can’t exactly be my biggest fan at the moment.

Yeah, as much as it breaks my little cold heart, I’m pretty certain neither of them are in the Joey Fan Club anymore.

“Fair enough,” he mutters. “So, I’d consider us friends—”

“I would say you’re jumping the gun, there, Cowboy.”

“Come on,” he almost-whines. “I’m giving you a ride to school.” Milo looks to me, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

I snort. “I’m allowing you my presence,” I reply. “It’s a gift. Don’t waste it.”

“Fine,” he says, the car stopping at another sign. “Well, I consider you
my
friend.” Milo sneaks a glance at me, smirking smugly. “How you classify me, that’s a thing between you and your diary.”

“And that’s why we are
not
friends,” I tell him.

His head turns as he looks at me, stopping so long at the sign that the car behind us honks with annoyance.

“What?”

“I don’t keep a diary,” I tell him, ignoring the question. As I watch the world through the window blur in hues of browns, greens, and grays, spotting people walking to school. “I can’t handle that kind of commitment.”

“Huh,” Milo mutters. “My sister loves her diary.”

The word
sister
catches my attention, my eyes turning to him. “There are
more
of you?” I blurt.

He chuckles quietly before saying, “I guess so, if you wish to phrase it like that.” Milo looks to me. “She’s younger than me—an eighth grader.”

I snort. “God, I feel sorry for her,” I mumble.

“Hey,” he objects loudly, playfully pushing me in the arm.

His touch brings tension to my body, preventing me from joining in on the laughter booming from his throat. But some part of me can’t tell him not to do that. That part is large, nearly half of me, while the other half screams at me to shove him away.

“I’m sorry,” he says once the laughter dies down.

“For what?” I ask, rubbing away his lingering touch from my arm.

“You hate people touching you,” Milo states matter-of-factly, and he isn’t wrong. “I see it. It’s just—I don’t know. I can’t really explain it. I feel like I
can
touch you.”

Um…

“Try,” I nudge, waiting to see where he goes with this conversation.

“I feel like I can be myself with you,” Milo replies honestly. “It’s just easy, you know? Easy to talk to you, easy to be around you.” He smiles wistfully, staring through the windshield at the stoplight. “You know?”

No, I don’t.

It might be wrong to say what’s on my mind, so instead, I say, “So where’d you grow up?” instead.

Can’t go wrong when you change the subject.

Milo notices and chuckles. “Right outside of Austin,” he replies. “I was born in Dallas, though. From where in Texas are you?”

“Dallas,” I answer. “I visit every year, seeing my grandparents and…” I trail off, debating how to phrase it. “Other things.” Nothing wrong with being vague. Right now, I miss the simplicity I find in Dallas. Surrounded by family, it’s something I crave when I feel low and alone.

He pulls into an open spot in the back of the student lot. I wait for him so we can continue this conversation. I haven’t any clue why but I feel like being overly polite.

“For some reason, my parents just up and moved us to Austin.” Milo shakes his head. “There was talk for some time about moving out of state, something about some crazy guy stalking my mother, but something happened to him over the years.”

“What happened to him?” I ask, nosy and curious.

“I don’t know, after a while, my mom stopped hearing from him.” Milo shrugs. “So my parents decided it was safe enough to stay where we were.” His hand clutches the strap on his backpack. “I never ask. It still terrifies my mother to this day with just the mere mention of the maniac and I don’t want to freak her out.”

“Why are you here now?”

I’ve heard the rumors. I’ve heard the tale of the slaughtered teacher. But wait, there’s more: he got a teacher pregnant, he got the principal’s daughter pregnant, he got another student pregnant—there were a lot of tales of pregnancies running around. Then he punched a teacher, he punched the principal, he blew up part of his old school, he kidnapped and slaughtered the school mascot. A lot of these stories were impossible. I mean, if most were true, he’d probably be in jail because they’re are crimes, some serious crimes.

So—I want to hear his story. The true story.

“You want the gritty story.” He looks at me knowingly. “You want the one filled with blood, carnage, and few dead bodies.”

I laugh. “How about the real one, Cowboy.”

“My mom got a job transfer,” Milo explains. “Nothing too exciting. Certainly nothing compared to why everyone else thinks I’m here.”

As a person who grew up with tales slung about her, untrue stories spreading around about her, I can feel for him. It’s almost enough I nearly hug him, nearly force my body to work through the unbearable tension and wrap my arms around him. I hate the feeling of wanting to comfort a dude I barely know.

“I’m sorry,” I sputter. “You have my reputation.”

“Well, as a new guy in desperate need of friends,” he begins, pulling open the door and letting me pass. “Hopefully, it’ll weed out the idiots. I don’t need that in my life.”

I laugh, pulling open the second door. “You have high hopes for friends here, huh?” I ask as he shoves me through, holding that door open for me as well.

“Why not. If I’m stuck here, might as well make the most of it.” Milo makes a good point. “It seems like I’ve made a good choice already.”

I stop, letting him continue ahead. “I thought we covered this? We’re
not
friends!”





The day is slow and long. So very,
very
slow and long. And uneventful. I swear I saw the clock tick backwards at some point. By the time the clock actually says it’s appropriate for me to consume nutrients, I bolt from the room to my locker and switch out my books.

“Hey,” I hear from behind me. Turning, I spy Harley and Kennie walking over. I haven’t seen much of Harley lately but we were talking in gym class today about hanging out later. Judging by the hopeful look on her face, she wants that
later
to be
now.
I didn’t think she meant lunch. “Are you sitting with us today?” she asks, her brown hair dropping into her eyes before she can flick it away.

“Uh, uhm…” I trail off, trying to think of any way to get out of this.
You see, I would, but I’d rather dine naked in the boys locker room after their practice
. The last thing I want to do is spend my lunch awkwardly sitting at the same time with my ex-boyfriend who might be plotting my murder.

Less likely, but I fear it.

“Zephyr’s totally cool about it,” Kennie adds boisterously. “If that’s what you were worrying about.”

I wasn’t worried about that but thanks for the added information, Kennie
.

Harley turns to glare at our blonde—sweet baby Jesus, sometimes she hits those blonde stereotypes right on the nose—friend having an obvious blonde moment as my eyes widen at the words that just left her mouth.

“You’re not the brightest candle in the chandelier at times, Ken,” Harley tells her before turning back to me. “Ignore Blondie over here; what we care about is you and spending time with you.” Her hands clasp in front of her, her bottom lip jutted out in pout.

“I’ll think about it, okay?” I say, trying to think of some way,
any
way, out of it. But I only have about thirty seconds to make the decision.

“Please, please,
pretty please
turn that
maybe
into a
yes
.” Kennie begs while Harley looks at me, pouting dramatically and—
damn it!
—yes, giving me those damned puppy dog eyes. I can’t turn down the puppy dog eyes. They’re my effing kryptonite.

She knows I can’t say
no
to the puppy dog eyes.

I nod my head slightly and slowly before saying, with a sigh, ”Yes,” to the invitation to sit at my old lunch table, to partake in having friends and nice conversation, maybe an apple.

I should have thought that decision through, truly. But sliding on my big girl panties—they’re pink and polka dotted in my mind—I say screw it and just do whatever I want. It won’t be so bad, it’s only Zephyr and he’s not a rabid lion… or anything worse. We’ve descended into this civility, this place of limbo, that irks me most of the time but it’s the easiest thing to do not to scream how much I love him when he passes by in the halls.

Harley and Kennie l eave, excited finally to have things back to normal—at least that’s how I think they feel. I won’t know until I’m there.

Skipping down the front staircase to the cafeteria, I stop on the first step and peer over the crowd, searching the familiar faces.

I haven’t been in this room much since the start of the year but no one notices me. I slink through the crowd, keeping the back of Harley’s head in my view. The rest of the table is hidden by a pillar.

I fix my hair, pulling it over my shoulder, and grasp the locket dangling in front of my shirt.
I can do this
, I tell myself. Taking a step forward, I breathe deep and start walking.

The table comes further into view, I spot everyone. Avery and Harley—
ew
—feeding each other lunch, Jackson and Ksenia at one end of the table in discussion with Kennie. At the other end, I spy Zephyr with…
a girl
. Gulp—a pretty, blonde girl I’ve never seen him talk to, walk with, do anything with, before. She’s beaming, her smile bright, toothy, perfect, and distracting as her hand flips her hair back.

At the sight of her, my steps falter and I stop in the middle of the cafeteria, my eyes stuck on her as she touches Zephyr’s arm—
that’s the flirty signal!
He smiles at the touch, her skin on his—she will
touch
him. She can touch him and not freak out. His hand reaches up, sliding her hair from her shoulder, exposing the flawless skin where the collar starts. His thumb begins tracing lines against the ridges of her exposed flesh and she’s giggling—
the girl is giggling
.

It’s taking everything I can muster not to walk up to them and smack her, yelling at her to get her paws off my man—
you bitch!

But the sight of them—looking at them so close and cozy, it does something to me, something I can’t easily explain. It takes my breath, steals my air, and I fight for it back.

It breaks my heart he doesn’t even look up. He doesn’t even notice me staring at them staring at each other.

Stepping back, I bump into something or someone—I don’t really care the difference—and to me, it’s just a barrier to my escape. I turn around, darting around the large form, and bolt, sprinting down the hall as fast as my legs can carry me.

How could Harley and Kennie think my being there was a good thing? How could they look at that table, see Zephyr and a beautiful blonde and think that is the place I need to be? How could they do that to me? I thought they cared about me, I thought they were my friends.