Page 28 of Pocketful of You

Lies.

Lies.

More fucking lies.

Nothing made sense anymore and everything was lifeless and ugly.

Blood, bullets, betrayal, and destruction.

It was all around me now.

Sniffling, I stroked my nose against the back of my hand and closed my eyes.

It's a lie.

Your life.

His life.

All of it.

And just like that, Sketch's voice filled my mind, sending a trembling shudder through my body…

"Hey, Ro? The ground wasn't moving. We were on a boat…"

And now you're back.

"The boy behind the door," I breathed, mulling his name over and over in my mind until I felt a wave of calmness sweep over me. Electric blue eyes. They were all I could think about – all I could focus on as the walls of my confinement closed in around me. "Sketch likes to sketch…"

Eyelids lulling from a mixture of trauma and sheer exhaustion, I allowed sleep to claim me, knowing that in my dreams, he would keep me company…

Winter formal officially sucked ass.

Of course, it was only junior year, so I always had next year to look forward to, not to mention senior prom, but if this was a preview of how they would go, then I might just pass.

Slumped at a table, while my so-called boyfriend playedCards Against Humanitywith his sidekick, I felt invisible.

Why couldn’t Presley bring a date with him to keep me company while he and Chris did their thing?

It wasn’t that I was jealous that Chris spent most of his time with Pres, I understood that they were best friends, but it made me realize just how much I missedmine.

Or should I say, myformerbest friend, who was currently skulking in the corner of the festively decorated gym with his football buddies, and slugging back a fifth of vodka like it was going out of style.

Watching Sketch from a distance hurt, and if I stared too long, I was in danger of ruining my makeup.

A wistful sigh escaped my lips and I quickly tore my gaze away from his back.

Keep it together, Romi.

You're here with Chris.

Yourboyfriend, remember?

Ignoring Chris and Presley, who were too wrapped up in their game to notice I was even present, I concentrated on reorganizing my clutch. After that, I decided to give the photo album in my cell a little clear out. Scrolling through and dumping a couple of hundred screenshots – aka: receipts – of mundane he-said/she-said social media drama, I grew bored and tossed it back in my purse.

What a waste.

Daddy had paid forty-five hundred for my backless, yellow silk, couture dress and Chris had yet to ask me for a dance.

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