Page 41 of The Masks We Burn

But Lil shakes her head, a sad smile making her entire face seem glum. “I just don’t want you to hurt him. I know you’ll be fine. Your armor is made of steel. But Will? Graham crackers.”

Even though she’s serious, I scoff, the idea sounding as ridiculous as hell. She may claim to know the guy, but I’m starting to think I’ve gotta better read on him. He’s looking for a good time, not a long time, just like me.

We know what we’re doing, and that’s just having fun. Well, and also putting each other in a spot which will help our futures. But just in case there’s any truth to her words, I put it on a back burner in the deepest part of my head.

He makes one move outside of what we have going on now, we’ll stop. I’ll pull the plug and act as if the whole thing never happened.

“Alright, Lil. We’ll be careful. Can we talk about the wedding instead?” My words come out exasperated now, and luckily, she hears the hint of desperation lining them.

Lily nods. “Yeah. But I’m here if anything changes and you decide you need to talk.”

“Will do,” I agree, thankful for the subject change

Being honest is fucking exhausting. Zero out of ten, do not recommend.

* * *

I glanceover the papers one last time. They’re filled with line after line of courses I took in a tireless endeavor in an attempt to find myself while escaping a fate I never wanted. All of the pointless hours, the meaningless classes... It was for a piece of paper that has and will do nothing for a future that doesn’t even exist. I was just so ready to leave, I didn’t care.

Four years.

That’s how long I had to figure my shit out. Yet here I am, sitting in my advisor’s office as she scrolls a vast list of possible jobs—none of which appeal to me in the slightest.

She taps a long French manicured nail on the table before sighing, brushing a gray curl behind her ear. “Well, that was all I could find, Ms. Orlov. My only other suggestion to you would be to maybe start your own business. What are your interests?”

Sex, anime, and baking. Hmph, guess I could be a cosplay stripper. Or maybe bake anime cakes. Is there even a market for either?

I huff, pushing my file back to her. “Nothing I could turn into a lucrative business.”

An empathetic grin passes over her face, soft brown eyes saying everything she doesn’t need to. Basically, I’m fucked. I said that before, didn’t I?

Realization sets in deep. So fucking deep the room grows ten times smaller and I’m nearly gasping for my next breath. Tears I haven’t let fall from my face in years burn the edge, threatening to spill every fear on this woman’s desk.

Is my fear of living in poverty irrational? I don’t know, maybe. But I feel it nonetheless, and it fucking sucks. Luckily, I still have a little more time, and that’s the only thing keeping me from plunging face-first into my therapist’s couch and giving up.

I thank the adviser as I stand and send a text to the man I owe for last week.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ilove football. Have since I was old enough to hold a ball at the ripe age of two. It took a whole lotta convincing before my dad realized I couldn’t throw the NFL-sized one and had to put a Nerf ball in my hand.

We started practicing shortly after, and pretty soon, that’s all I wanted to do. It became my obsession just as much as it was his and we put in hours of work every week. Sounds brutal, and probably too much for a kid, but it’s true what they say—do what you love and you never work a day in your life.

When I got older and was ready to join the local peewee league, they had to put me with kids three years older. Not only because I was bigger, but because I was better. Way better.

By the time I reached middle school, the high school coaches were coming to the games, watching me play. When I was a freshman? Six scouts were already trying to have meetings with me and my family.

I knew what I wanted to do.

I knew where I was going.

My future was set in stone.

Then it was gone in the blink of a fucking eye. Taken—no. It wasstolenfrom me before I even realized I was hit…

It’s been four years since I’ve set foot on the turf. Four years since I’ve held a ball or studied plays or looked at the field without anguish flowing from my heart.

It’s been four years since I’ve felt alive—really alive. Not the artificial high I chase in replacement.

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