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“Your grandma’s going to be home soon,” he told me, eyes still on my bared breasts. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.” He paused. “And I don’t want to freak you out by taking it too far. I’m feeling a little too crazed not to do something you’re not ready for.”
“Okay,” I said, because he was right about all of it, so I couldn’t argue.
I straightened and started working at getting my ample boobs back into my bra.
Dante happily helped me, bending down to nuzzle between when we had them back in place. “Can we . . . hang out at your grandma’s tomorrow? We’ll meet at Gram’s. I—“ he paused voice thickening, “need some time alone with you. More than a few minutes in the woods.”
I kissed him, then kissed him again. “Of course. We can watch a movie or something.”
He looked amused. “Whatever you want to call it.”
But when I showed up at his gram’s the next day she was there with him.
I turned around and started walking home.
He caught up to me, stopping me with a hand on my arm. “Stop. Just meet her, okay? She’s not that bad. Just come get introduced and we’ll make an excuse and leave, huh? But there’s no need to be rude. She’s not rude. Trust me.”
I was fuming, but I went back with him.
If only to get a closer look at the girl his family wanted him to marry.
Dante introduced us.
I mumbled out a surly, “Nice to meet you.”
She seemed unfazed, beaming at me. “Nice to meet you too, Scarlett.”
We did not leave right away, much to my chagrin. Instead we stayed while she chatted with Dante and I glared at them both.
She was very sweet, even to me. And she had an obvious, extreme crush on Dante. She looked up, up, up at him like he was the center of her universe.
I knew the look well. I wore it often myself.
Meeting her didn’t help. I hated her more than ever. The sweeter she was, the more it made me sick to my stomach. I’d wanted to her to be awful, and ugly.
But she was beautiful and good.
It made no sense.
I was a fighter. A warrior of a girl.
She was a delicate flower. A shrinking violet.
Why did her timidity cow me? How?
Self-disgust resonated through me, and I steeled myself.
Just because she was something I couldn’t understand, something he might like, that didn’t mean I’d back down.
I studied her while they talked, eyeing her head to toe. She was thin in the way that models are thin, not an ounce of fat on her, but still some shape, even if it was just the way her skin molded around her bones. She’d look good in anything. She had no breasts to speak of, so she was basically a walking clothes hanger.
Everything I wore pulled across my breasts, drawing eyes, making things fit worse than they should have.
And her hips were nonexistent. That I hated even more. Breasts, particularly big perky ones like mine, were well beloved by boys, and more importantly, well beloved by Dante.
But fleshy, shapely hips? It was anyone’s guess. Mine were a handful and then some.
I had mentally catalogued every inch of her by the time either of them turned back to me.
