Page 10 of Outspoken

Feeling bored, I slap my crayon down. I consider grabbing my journal to write since I’ve gottenwaytoo into journaling lately. Writing is something I've always hated, but now I'm happy to spend hours writing about the random crap that pops in my head. I’ve even written poems. I’m sure they’re awful, but no one else will read them. Writing is only for me right now.

I decide to work on my nails. I fetch my nail polish bag from the bathroom and then return to the kitchen table, the old wooden chair creaking. After filing my nails, I unscrew a purple polish. The tart, acidic smell assaults my nose, and a stupid thought crosses my mind:How much nail polish would I have to sniff to get high?

I quickly screw the lid back on and return to coloring the bloated unicorns.

After a while, I’m thinking too much about sniffing nail polish and wondering if it'll feel good as it fries my brain, so I read Miguel's text again:You home?

Chatting with him could be a good distraction, so I respond:Yeah. I’m home. What you up to?

Miguel:Cool to stop by? I’ll bring dinner.

I stare at the screen, suddenly aware of my heartbeat. He’s finally cashing in that rain check? I should probably say no. I regret letting my guilt invite him over. It’s weird, isn’t it? Hanging out with Brody’s friend while he’s in the hospital. I know Brody will be happy that Miguel ‘watched me’ and kept me company, but what if we start talking about the night I sobbed in his arms? Yeah, no thanks. All of those emotions can stay in the past.

Or what if he flirts to make me smile, but he doesn’t mean anything by it, and I’m too vulnerable, so my insides get all knotted up? I know flirting can be innocent—just something fun—but I may be too raw to participate without taking it too seriously.

I’ll tell him no. That’s what Smart Amber would do.

When I tap the screen to reply, my clumsy thumb brushes over an auto-response, and it's sent before I can react. My eyes widen in horror. I appreciate the app developer's attempt at making my life easier with that feature, but they’ve only fucked it up.

The response of'Yay! Let’s do it!'sounds nothing like me. I never use exclamation points because life is depressing.

Fuck.

As I debate whether I can say I’m kidding without sounding rude, Miguel responds:Great. See you soon :)

Double fuck.

I hurry to the bathroom to check my appearance.Hot mess.It figures he’d come on a day when I’m technically clean but didn’t bother to do anything else, like brush my hair or put on fresh clothes, or deal with any blemishes.

Should I pretend I’m not home?I could claim I had an emergency and not answer the door.

No, that’s too mean.

I brush my hair and then spritz it with a heat-protectant spray. Then, I pull my curling iron out of a drawer. Before I wrap my first lock of hair around the rod, I freeze. Why am I so panicked? So what if I look terrible? I'm not trying to seduce him—I don't need male drama in my life. And who knows if he has a girlfriend or what he has going on?

I rest the curling iron down on the sink and unplug it. There's no need to put in special effort. I’m notthatinto him. Actually, I’m not into him at all. He’s just an acquaintance I appreciated, nothing more.

I saunter to my room with a newfound calm. I throw on a pair of acceptable jeans and a slightly wrinkled pink blouse. Then, I use deodorant and twist my hair into a messy bun. After that, I settle on the couch to watch TV and wait.

These couch cushions are so much better.

Twenty minutes later, Miguel's knock jolts my heart. When I hurry to the front door and unlock it, I realize I'm grinning. I pinch my cheeks.Tone it down, girl.After adjusting my bun, I open the door.

Miguel is smiling at me from the porch, his dimple showing. He's wearing his signature white sneakers, jeans, and a printed button-up shirt with little pug heads on it. His eyes quickly scan my body and my face warms.

Stop it. That wasn’t a lustful look. He was just glancing at my outfit. My blouse is pretty wrinkly.

Trying to look casual, I lean against the door frame. “Hey.”

“Hey, how’s it going?” he asks.

“Good. You?”

“It's been a great day that’s about to get better.” He raises a white casserole dish balancing in his hand. There’s also a large box beside him on the porch. “You into chicken bakes?”

I stare at the dish, not sure how to react to a home-cooked meal. I thought he was just bringing takeout. “Yeah, but you didn’t cook this, did you? That’s too much. You’ve already—”

“Uh…” He fiddles with the dish, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he continues, “My tía loves to cook, so…”

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