They keep you safe, period.
If it weren't for my inhibitions, everyone would know. And no one would look at me the way they do now—like it's possible I'm on my way to becoming a strong, independent woman.
I pee. Shower. Brush my teeth. Grab my pastel pink makeup bag—the one I adorned in song lyrics—and pick out exactly what I need.
Emma is the one who got me into makeup, but we wear it so differently. For her, it's fun. A way to express herself. To experiment.
For me, it's another necessary component of my shield. No one asks if you're okay if you look polished and awake. Nobody dives past th
e surface. Which means nobody gets closer than they should.
After I clean every spilled drop of powder foundation from the counter and towel-dry my hair, I head back to Emma's room.
She's out like a light. Her shoes, bag, and jewelry are strewn around the room. I take a moment to put everything away—hers and mine.
I practically live here. Which is why the room is as clean as it is.
I love Emma. She's my best friend, the only person I trust. Well, besides Grandma.
I say this with love.
She's a slob. A proud slob. One who insists she prefers her room messy. Supposedly, it inspires her creativity.
I don't care.
I can't stand it.
We fight about my clean-up efforts all the time. Usually, I get Brendon on my side. Usually, he delivers one of those I don't care if you're technically an adult, my house, my rules dad lines of his.
But right now...
I'm not sure how I'm going to face him after last night.
I check my phone. No texts from my parents, not since the see you after work tomorrow, sweetie ones I got last night. My Facebook is still flush with Happy Birthday notifications from people I haven't talked to since middle school.
It's kind of nice to feel popular. Even if it's obviously fake. Don't get me wrong. I'm friendly with lots of people. Most of the people I know, save all the reporters on the school paper who complained about my high standards, think I'm sweet, nice, easy going. And they're right. Sort of.
But they're not my friends.
They don't know me. They only know the pretty, polished Kaylee who gets straight As and smiles a perfect customer service smile no matter how ridiculous the complaint.
My stomach growls as the smell of bacon wafts into the room. Then it screams food, no thank you.
Bacon isn't happening.
But I should eat something.
I should get this torture over with.
Brendon is my best friend's older brother. I can't avoid him forever.
I pack my bag, change into my work clothes, and slink downstairs.
The white light of morning falls over the wide-open room. It casts Brendon in an angelic glow—so not him, but so right all the same.
God, those dark eyes, that black hair, the strong features—
I want to drink in every inch of him.