Page 30 of Bitter Lies

On their way out the door, Griffin, looking particularly beautiful in jeans and a shirt that does nothing to hide his physique, says with a cruel smirk, “No parties.”

“Ha! She doesn’t have friends,” Max sneers, and I narrow my eyes.

Why does Max feel the incessant need to be fucking cruel?

“Indeed.” Griffin gives me one last look before closing the door on my nasty expression.

Jerk. How the fuck did I end up here? Those boys were my world, and now I’m on the outside looking in, but not only that, they’re fucking assholes.

Once again, I look through my memories, but I come up empty. One day we were friends, and the next…nothing. And I know it’s fucking pathetic to cling to what can never be and lust after a guy who clearly doesn’t fucking care, but how do you forget the one person who truly made you feel alive?

No moment, no person since has ever made me feel the way he made me feel. When Griffin looked at me with his shining eyes and convinced me I could do anything and be anything, I felt as though I could fly. He was my everything, until I became his nothing.

Collapsing on the couch, I brood over their harsh words because although they aren’t untrue, it leaves me feeling pathetic and mulish. If I want to have people over, I should be able to, including a fucking guy.

I’m not a pathetic loser just because I choose to not put myself out there. Dicks. Hm.

With a recklessness that makes me feel queasy, I search out Hogan from our Psych class on social media, hoping I will find him by his last name alone, and smile triumphantly when I do because, of course, he’s friends with Griffin.

Typing out an instant message, I wait for him to respond while I bite my fingernails.

Is this a good idea? Probably not. I’m putting myself in a vulnerable position, but I refuse to believe every guy I meet is a jerk, and if I want to have a little fun, that’s my right.

Fuck Griffin for calling me a whore when he’s with a different chick every night. Fuck Max for his insinuations. He doesn’t know shit about me because he hasn’t bothered to know in fucking years.

Ping.

Hogan: hey there, I didn’t expect to hear from you. What’s up?

Chewing on my lip, I hover over the letters, undecided, before huffing and typing out the words. This is the next step in my journey, and I refuse to let anyone else define who I am or what I can do.

And maybe it’s a mark of my progress that I’m pushing past the shame pulsing under my skin. I’d like to think so anyway.

Halsey: what are you up to? Do you want to come by?

Fuck. Closing my eyes, I fight the panic squeezing my throat before taking a deep breath and letting it go. This is fine. Normal. I’m normal. Shit.

Hogan: yeah? Sure, send me your address

After typing out a reply, I set about making myself pretty because even though guys think with their other heads, I’m sure it would go a long way if I brushed my damn hair and put on some makeup.

Twenty minutes later, I answer the door in a tight white tank that shows off the swell of my admittedly small breasts and a short skirt I found at the bottom of my closet.

As soon as I open the door, terror glides down my spine as Hogan greets me with a broad smile. But I grit my teeth and will it away as his blue eyes dip to my tits, and he steps inside, giving me a half hug.

What the fuck am I doing? Relax. People do this all the time.

“Hey,” he says easily, “I was surprised by your message.”

“Yeah.” My cheeks heat ten thousand degrees because now that he’s here, I don’t know what to do. “Um, you want a drink?”

“Sure.”

Guiltily I grab one of Griffin’s beers, before reminding myself that he’s an asshole, and hand it over with a smug smile because as rebellions go, it’s a stupid one, but it makes me happy all the same.

We settle on the couch, and I turn on the television, but he pays it no mind as he sets his drink on the table and leans in to twirl a piece of my hair between his fingers.

“So,” he says huskily.

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