Page 11 of Swallow Your Sorries

She doesn’t look at me at all.

She can’t.

She’s nothing like Rosalie.

Nothing like the mother she wishes to have.

Nothing like the mother she wishes to be.

Elle

One Week Later

I knew the asshole was right, but I couldn’t stop myself from checking my storage anyway. Sure enough, it’s been full for weeks. That’s what I get for ignoring the warning messages, but who could blame me? You delete fifty photos and twenty videos, and it’s still full.

Whatever. All isn’t lost.

There’s still a copy of that video floating around, and I know exactly where to find it. On that asswipe’s phone.

Why had he sent it to himself, anyway? What dog did he have in this fight? Not that I care. All I care about is seeing him, or rather his phone, ASAP.

I’d lurked around the studio last Monday and Tuesday, taking two buses each way in hopes he’d show up, but no dice. I have no clue what classes or levels he takes, but seeing as we met last Thursday, today is my best bet.

My final class with Madame passes by in a blur. I can’t even remember her disparaging comments as I hang around the hallway, searching for those dark eyes to finally turn up. But as five twenty rolls around, my hope wanes. I’m about to peer into every classroom windowagainwhen suddenly there’s a dull prod on my back.

I whip around and get stabbed in the gut by a white box. It’s a new phone, my dream phone, in metallic lavender. I’d salivated over it online, but the one thousand dollar price tag had made it yet another unreachable item on my digital vision board.

My old phone barely qualifies as a smartphone, with shitty graphics and enough storage for only one game at a time. Though I never got around to playing it, because the phone would crash within two minutes of game time.

He could’ve easily bought me a replacement for fifty-five bucks. So what, was this some sort of guilt trip?

“Take it.”

The obviousness of the phone aside, I don’t need to look up to know who’s impaling me. Even his fingers holding the box are beautiful, long, and perfectly manicured. My fingers were crooked monstrosities, with too-large knuckles and peeling cuticles.

Still, his cool words pull my eyes to his, and once again, I’m transfixed by his beauty. By the porelessness of his skin, and the way his hair falls so effortlessly onto his forehead. His woodsy scent fills my nostrils and wraps around my brain, squeezing it into mush.

I blink, trying to bring myself back to reality and hating the way my heart still thunders at the sight of this psycho. Whatever happened to muscle memory? Instead of butterflies dancing in my gut, shouldn’t my neck be pulsing in remembrance, inwarningof how he’d handled it like a damn gear shift?

“Do your parents know you’ve bought this?” I blurt.

He looks at me like I’ve just asked the dumbest question in the world.

Why would I ask, anyway? Why did I care? He owed me a replacement. It’s not my fault he bought an expensive one.

“I have a black card. My accountant doesn’t bat an eye at any purchase under five grand.”

My accountant???

Black card?

I’ve watched enough dramas to know that a black card is usually the highest-tier card that banks offer. And he has one… Isn’t he sixteen? Seventeen at best?

“Haven’t you heard the expression never look a gift horse in the mouth? Your old phone may as well have been a rock.”

I hesitate and he prods me harder.

“Take the phone or throw it away. I don’t care.”

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