Page 40 of Not Until Her

She goes to grab her bag of items at the same time I do, and our hands collide with a little electric zap. I wince, and pull away quickly. That happens all the time when I’m at work, so I assume I’m the one at fault.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

I rip her receipt off the printer with my other hand and hold it out, but she doesn’t notice.

She’s too busy staring at me.

She doesn’t stop, even when I’m looking right back at her. I see her eyes move slightly, like they’re outlining the shape of every feature, every detail. I’m too stunned to move. It’s weird, right? I should think she’s being weird, but I actually, stupidly like that she’s looking at me. I feel cute today, and I did my makeup to my highest standards. My bright pink eyeliner matches my hair perfectly, and I’m wearing flowery earrings that are the exact same shade.

And Ireallylike that I get to look at her. I scan more details. Her feathered brows, her pouty lips, the piercings lining her ears. Her makeup is flawless, her red lipstick is bold. She looks like the kind of person that really has herself figured out. She knows what works, and she runs with it.

Because itisworking. I have every reason to find her flaws, and to pick her apart, because I know her personality sucks. I just can’t find anything.

She’s so beautiful it makes my chest hurt.

I don’t get to keep trying to find anything, because she suddenly looks down. Before I realize what’s happening, she snatches the receipt out of my hand and heads for the exit.

I’m at a loss, as usual.

“You know her?” Paige asks. “She’s like,reallypretty.”

Isn’t she?

“No,” I grumble.

But I spend the rest of my shift thinking of nothing other than howprettyshe is.

Dahlia falls asleep early, and I’m nervous about it. I’m always nervous being in my own home these days. I was planning to take her to my parents again, but I don’t have the heart to move her now.

With my front door cracked open so I can hear if she wakes up and needs me, I plant myself on my usual seat outside. I’ll get on my knees and beg if I have to, but I’m hoping my neighbor doesn’t show up at all. I deserve that much: one easy, problem free night. Just one.

For now. At some point I’ll let my dreams reach further.

I grab my hook and my unfinished crochet project, and pick up where I left off. My nerves are on fire, so it’s nice to keep my hands busy. I go without listening to anything, enjoying actual silence while I’ve got it. I don’t usually stop long enough to listen to the small things in the world around me. The rustling of leaves being jostled in the wind. Birds, bugs, distant cars. It’s peaceful.

It doesn’t take long at all tonight for my peace to be disrupted. This time I’m on such high alert that I recognize the sound of tires crunching on the gravel of our little parking lot. It wouldn’t be anyone else, not at this time of night.

It’s about to be game time, and I am seriously underprepared. I should’ve ran lines with my mom, or even myself in the mirror. That would’ve been better than nothing. What do I even say? Should I try to cry? Maybe if I lay it on really thick, she’ll finally feel bad enough. I haven’t exactly come to her with anything but an attitude before.

Zero attitude, Reya. Stay cool.

She must hustle up the stairs because it feels like I barely blink and there she is, wearing an all black tracksuit. She wears it too well, and I foolishly can’t keep myself from admiring her curves.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

I jolt in surprise, not expecting her to have said the first word. Or said anything really, she’s always so set on getting away from me.

I cautiously hold up the unfinished headband in my hands.

“Hanging out on my front porch. What are you doing?”

“Wishing I didn’t have to share a front porch,” she mumbles. It’s not quiet enough to evade my ears if that’s what she was hoping. I roll my eyes. “Were you waiting for me again?”

“I wasn’t waiting for you,” I insist. At least I wasn’t all of the other times. I’m not going to admit that tonight happens to be one time I was, she’s full enough of herself.

“Sure you weren’t,” she says with all the sarcasm in the world.

“We’ve hardly said two sentences to each other, which is not enough for you to so boldly call me a liar.”