“I already do.”
A quick laugh leaves her, the corner of her lips lifting and almost cracking mine, but I don’t allow it, instead, I let myself sink into the seat more.
I keep this shit as simple as it is.
“Why do you care what I think?”
Her gaze holds a hint of reserve, but she decides to keep going. “I like to spin things in my own mind, to believe the choices made for me are made in my favor. That way it sucks a little less than the truth.”
Lies fuck up everything. She has to know this.
Right?
I sit up straighter. “If you’re lyin’ to yourself, who can you trust?”
She faces forward, turning to look into the darkness outside the window beside her. “No one.” She pulls in a heavy breath, slowly brings her eyes back to mine. “Not a soul.”
Something stirs beneath my ribs, but I’m not sure what to make of it.
No one.
She can trust no one.
Not even herself.
“People suck, but small towns suck even more,” she adds with a resigned smile. “All these people ever do is whisper about how lucky I am, and how I need to take advantage of the new opportunities I supposedly have here—work harder, do more, get involved.” She rolls her eyes. “But it’s such crap. They don’t really want that. They just want to feel better about themselves when they pass me on the street and look the other way.”
It will be better for her, I can hear Bass’ words loud and fucking clear.
But is it?
She sounds miserable, and worse, accepting of it.
“I’m not ungrateful, I appreciate having somewhere to go.” She decides to share more, and I’m locked in, waiting for her reasoning and irritated over my internal need to know. “And of course I want more out of life, but not here, and not the life people look at me and believe I should have. They see this young, misled girl with weird tics and quiet thoughts and bam, suddenly they all know exactly who I should be.” Her eyes hit mine. “Why should I have to be this saint others expect of me in order to have a future I can be proud of, happy with? What if I want to be different? And more than that, what if I’m supposed to be?”
Her last word leaves her in an unsure whisper.
The vein in my jaw begins to throb, forcing me to clench my teeth to stop it.
I lick my lips, my question a low rasp. “Different how?”
“Despite what I lived through, I’m not a cruel person,” she says, more to herself than me. “And I’m happy about that, but—”
But what?
Her head falls.
Come on, girl. But what...
“But was raised with a whole lot of bad.” Her eyes, they lift to mine. “So, can I even be me without at least a little bit?”
My pulse kicks as I focus on Brielle.
On the void of her gaze.
On the truth in her words.
On her.
In my peripheral, I watch as goose bumps raise along her arms, but she doesn’t break eye contact, and I can’t fuckin’ seem to either, so I fight for a way to cut through the fog building in my mind, the questions I suddenly want answers to and the possibility of what those answers might be, but she beats me to it.
“Oh look.” She swallows. “It’s Franky.”
I glare, whipping around in my seat, but the place is as dead as it was when we walked in, nothing but a few trucker-looking couples sitting on the opposite side.
I swing back, but as I do my frown flips.
She has my straw between her pink lips and is drinking my shake when hers sits half full right in front of her.
Brielle laughs, chocolate spilling onto her chin as she wipes it off with a smile. “You still had whipped cream. I already ate all mine.”
I don’t say shit, stuck staring at the little thing beside me.
She goes back to stealing my fries as if they’re hers and dips them into her glass.
I tell myself to grab our shit and get out of here, that the questions floating in my mind don’t belong, but it doesn’t happen.
Instead I scoot the fuckin’ things in the middle of us and do the same damn thing.Chapter 6BrielleI flip my hands under the little air dryer and turn to look at myself in the mirror.
My uniform is wrinkled and has a few grass stains I’ll need to soak out before I can climb into bed tonight, but at least the swelling around my eyes has gone down some. I lean over the counter to inspect the whites of my eyes. They’re a little red, but better than they were when I woke up this morning.
That’s a good sign.
My hair is a ratted mess from the breeze, so I quickly run my fingers through it and loosely tie it back, more than ready to fall into bed and aware it’s going to be a while before I’m able.