Page 96 of Make Me Pretty
Abel giggles, the sound cutting straight through me.He’s looked so happy all day.
Is it what I said? Or is it just today…
My gut clenches, and I fist the wooden spoon so tight, my knuckles ache. When I look over at him on Ma’s right, his head is tossed back, white-blonde locks slightly wavy in the middle from his braids.
His cheeks are flushed, pale skin shimmering in the bright lights. His sweatshirt is fucking huge, skimming his mid-thighs, and his sweatpants aren’t much better.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in sweatpants before.
I stare a little harder, absentmindedly stirring the pasta as I do. The pants are black, and they look nice, and I’m definitely not checking him out—the way his pert little ass is invisible through the layers of clothing, but I know it’s there.
How his legs are so fucking long, even though he’s short as shit. Legs that are now hairless and soft and covered in scars he puts on himself. But I think a lot are also from… well—not from him.
He prefers his deformed smiley faces.
Abel catches me staring, eyes clashing in the short space between us—a space that contains mymother.I glance away, but it’s too late.
He’s watching me now. Always heavy and prickly and goddamned frustrating.
When Ma finishes slicing the tomatoes, she washes her hands and calls out, “BRB, gotta pee!”
“Ma, how many times do I have to tell you—don’t talk in text abbreviations!”
“I do what I want!” she shouts down the hall, and then, the door slams. I snort and shake my head. And then, I remember I’m alone with Abel for the first time since I woke up alone on the couch. Since I found my mother and my runt gossiping at the kitchen table like a couple of old ladies in a group home at teatime.
“You’re wearing my pants,” I remark aloud. Abel hums as he chops more spinach, placing small piles at a time into a big bowl to his right.
“Why?”
“Why not?” I watch his eyebrows lift, but I don’t get any more than his small smile.
“Look at me,” I snap softly. The knife clatters against the counter. It’s a piercing noise—one that makes me twitch secondsbefore Abel spins around and walks right into my space, pushing me back. I nearly trip over my feet at the hot press of his small, little body.
When his hands are firmly planted on the counter, on either side of my waist, he looks up. Lashes blonde once more, gray eyes forever penetrative.
“Well?” he asks. And I’m confused. I stare at his mouth, the way it moves to form each word. “I’m looking at you.”
“Yeah, I see that.” Abel licks his lips, a slow tease of his tongue.His wicked, wicked tongue.
The sound of the toilet flushing echoes through the walls. Neither of us step apart.
My hands find solace against his waist. The bunch of cotton. The sharp slope to bone.
Abel presses on his tiptoes. Hot breath mingles. Stinging and burning. And then, his chapped lips are on me. I part my mouth, expecting the jarring clash of teeth and tongue—because that’s what we are—but it never comes.
My eyes open, and I stare down at Abel. His are closed so softly, eyelashes skimming his cheekbones as he leans against me. Lips to mine. Not moving, not fighting.
Not even tasting.
Just touching.
And then, footsteps resound, and he pulls away, face blushed so prettily, it makes me sick.
By the time Ma reenters the kitchen, I’m still leaned against the counter, dumbfounded.
“What happened to you?” she asks as she stirs the pasta, then turns the burner off. “Earth to Peris.” She snaps her fingers. “Hello.”
I blink. My eyes come back into focus. “What?”
