Page 100 of Rules

“Max, I’m fine.”

“But are you really?” I take her in, her pale face and slim frame. “You look skinnier than you did a few weeks ago. I’ve seen you barely touch your lunch a few times at school.”

Her throat bobs at my words.

“Did you know I always notice it? Even when I’m not consciously looking or listening, I always see when you leave something on your plate. Or when you say you don’t feel hungry. Every time you give yourself a critical look in the mirror I wonder—what does she see? Will this be the time the monster comes back and makes her see something that doesn’t exist?”

“Oh, Max…” Jeanette whispers, and I can feel the pain in her voice. Tears fill her eyes, but before I can do or say anything, she pulls her hands out of mine and throws herself at me. Her arms wrap around my shoulders, squeezing tight.

I stand still, stunned. We haven’t hugged like this in so long I forgot how it feels. When we were close before, hugging like this was a given, but like our relationship, this also disappeared. Curling my hands around her, I squeeze her tighter. She leans into the crook of my neck, and I can hear her inhale. My whole body relaxes, savoring this moment to the fullest. I can feel my eyes burn, and I have to close them to hold in the emotions wanting to break free.

“I missed this,” Jeanette whispers softly.

I nod, too choked up to say anything else.

My hands run up and down her back in slow motion. “You’re skinnier.”

Sighing, Jeanette pulls back, her tear-stained eyes meeting mine.

“I’m trying, Max. I really am, but sometimes…” She inhales sharply and her eyelids flutter, tears falling down her cheeks. “But sometimes, it’s hard. There are days I can fight it, days I can look at my reflection in the mirror and say, ‘Screw you,’ and move on, but then there are days when nothing I say or do will ever make it better. Days when all I want to do is rip my skin off my bones and hide. Days when just the slightest of comments will ruin weeks of good days and make all the light submit to the darkness lurking underneath. I want to be strong, Max. I do. And not for you or anybody else, but for myself. I want to be confident and happy andwhole. And some days I can be just that. But some days… some days it’s just too much.”

“Is it Hill?” I have to ask harshly. He might be my friend, but if he’s messing with Jeanette, so help me God, I’ll kick his ass.

“Andrew?” Jeanette frowns. “What does he have to do with anything?”

Is she shitting me? Does she really think they’re so smart with their sneaking that nobody’s noticed?

I give her a knowing look. “I’m not blind, Jeanette. And your sneaking skills are shit. Only a fool couldn’t see through the two of you.”

Sighing, she leans against the pillows and looks at the ceiling. “It’s not Andrew.”

It’s hard to suppress the scowl at the sound of his name falling from her lips because whatever she says, I can see the look in her eyes, hear the undertone in her voice. Her feelings, they’re stronger than she wants to admit, even to herself.

“For a while, you seemed happier, J. Content. What changed?”

Jeanette nibbles at her lip. The silence stretches between us as she thinks it over until she finally breaks. “I was happy.He made me happy. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I should start learning how to be happy on my own.”

I take her hand in mine, thinking over her words. “You’ll succeed. If anybody deserves to be happy, it’s you. But please, don’t scare me like that anymore. I was serious when I said it; I cannot lose you.”

She offers me a smile. It’s weak, but it’s something. “I’ll try not to.”

“I’m here.” I need her to understand that. Need her to know she can rely on me. That I’m here and I won’t let her down. “If you need somebody to talk to or just want me to sit by you, I’ll always be here. You’ll always come first.”

Our relationship might be damaged, but it’s not beyond repair. It’ll take time, but we’ll heal. Together.

She nods, returning my squeeze. “You and me.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

BROOK

“You’ve been awfully quiet since school started back up,” Mrs. Brown says as she oh-so-nonchalantly stocks the art closet. Her quirky voice makes the vein in my forehead throb.

“And that’s different from my usual self how exactly?” I ask, not once moving my eyes from the blank canvas in front of me.

School started last week, and since then I’ve been doing my best to stay away from everybody, most of the time coming to hide in the art room, where I try to work on something.

The canvas all but mocks me. Puffing my cheeks, I dip the tip of my brush into the paint—don’t ask me which one; I’m not even sure—and start blindly tapping around on the white surface.

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