Page 16 of Unloved

Her eyes go wide as she blanches and then slowly shakes her head. It pulls a laugh from me as I settle an arm around her in the crowded, overly loud room.

“Wanna get some air, princess?”

“Okay,” she acquiesces, melting into me slightly as I steer us out to the back patio and pool area.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” I say, lips to her ear so she can hear me over the thumping speaker as we pass by it. “It’s only fair, since you clearly know mine.”

She steps out the door first, with me trailing behind as I pull the sliding door shut.

“Rosalie,” she offers a little loudly before blushing and smiling shyly. “But everyone calls me Ro.”

It’s quieter out here, and she instantly heads toward the pool, kneeling to dip her hand in.

“It’s warm, kinda,” Rosalie calls back to me before sitting down and unzipping her boots, pulling her socks off quickly so she can stick her feet in the water.

I shake my head but follow her and do the same, carefully setting my pristine shoes away from the water, pulling her boots to lienext to them. I stick my feet in beside her, thigh pressed lightly to hers. She sways gently to the music playing out here—it’s a calmer vibe, with Kendrick Lamar and Zacari’s “LOVE” playing through the hanging-by-a-wire porch speakers.

I take her in for a minute, while drawing in a breath. Usually I thrive in the bustling, never-lonely environment of a party, but this feels better somehow. She’s beautiful, warm tawny skin and curling brown hair trailing nearly to her waist. Glassy hazel eyes—a little more green than brown—and a rosy tint to her cheeks from the alcohol. This close, she smells a bit like Fireball cinnamon whiskey and something softer, a clean floral perfume.

Her outfit is a stunner, too, shorts and a sleeveless knit top that make me want to ask if shemadethem.

“These are cute,” I say, reaching out to pull lightly on one of the pink butterfly clips weaving down through her curls. “Pretty. I like your outfit.”

Rosalie blushes more deeply and pulls away, tucking her chin. “Oh, thank you. I—um, I don’t dress like this usually.”

“Oh?”

She shakes her head.

“Why not? It’s cool.”

“Tyler says I look like a dumb little kid,” she blurts out, then grimaces like she wasn’t planning on saying all that. Something shutters in her eyes, and she starts pulling at the clips, trying to tear them out of her hair almost harshly. “They’re stupid anyway.”

I stop her before she can yank a whole chunk of her curls out and smooth them down, reclipping one of the discarded butterflies where she’d pulled it loose. Only three of them are left in her hair, a colorful graveyard of discarded butterflies littering the concrete around us. “They’re not stupid. Tyler is stupid,” I grumble. I don’t know who the guy is, but he sounds like a prick I’d love to meet fist to face.

Which might be the reason I can’t stop myself from asking, “Is Tyler your…?”

“Boyfriend? Yeah— Or, I mean, no,” she murmurs before her cheeks heat. “I forgot. He’s my ex-boyfriend now, I guess? I don’t know. He’s confusing and says we’re not together, but we’re ‘casual.’?” She throws sarcastic air quotes around the word, and I chuckle a little. “But he’d kill me if he knew I was talking to you.”

“Jealous type?”

She snorts like I’ve told some funny joke, kicking the water with her feet a little. “Not at all. But you’reyou.”

I’m used to it, but for some reason the words land like a solid punch. For a moment, I don’t want to be known for what I am.

“Ahh, am I truly that big of a slut that everyone’s heard about me?” My voice isn’t carefree or relaxed anymore; even the chuckle in my words is darker, and I think it frightens her a little.

“No,” she finally says, her eyes wide and brow furrowed. “No—it’s… Because… I mean… I have a crush on you.”

I pause for the punch line, but Rosalie starts to talk nervously.

“We’ve met once before, at another party, but you probably don’t remember, and I sound insane, but you’ve always been my, like, celebrity crush.”

A smile spreads across my face before I can even control it, happiness bubbling in my stomach like champagne. I almost want to giggle like a kid.

“Aren’t celebrity crushes supposed to be celebrities?” I nudge her shoulder with mine a little, and my foot accidentally bumps hers in the water.

She laughs and nods, cheeks flushed and eyes intoxicatingly bright. “Yeah, sure—but you will be one someday.” She says it with such surety I find myself blushing for the first time in years.

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