Page 14 of Unleashed By Eden

“Yeah, because you’ve never had a real one.”

He tosses it out there offhandedly, but the words still sting. My birthdays until now have been sad little non-events. Last year, it was me, Liam, Jeanine, and whichever boyfriend she’d picked up at the pub that month, sitting around a drooping supermarket cake that was about two hours from expiring while she made a big show of pretending she remembered without the reminder on her phone.

Now, apparently, a house full of Liam’s mates and a handful of my classmates who barely know my name but definitely know his and Carter’s is supposed to be an upgrade.

“Please, Liam.” I’m begging now. There is no pride left. “I’m serious. I don’t want this.”

“It’s happening, Vi. Get over it.”

I let out a shriek that is a half-scream, half-groan, and stomp out of his room, slamming the door. I hear a crash on the other side. Probably one of his framed posters falling.

Good, he deserves it.

Four hours later, I’m wishing I had chained myself to the letterbox in protest or faked my own death, because I’m standing in front of my mirror in a pastel pink dress that makes me want to set myself on fire.

I tug at the hem for what feels like the thousandth time. It’s too short and too tight, and there are sequins on the bodice that scratch my skin whenever I move, but Jeanine insisted it was “perfect for a sweet sixteen.” I’m anything but sweet. But that was the whole reason I asked her to help me. Just this once, I wanted to try something feminine—something Cindy Winters would wear.

I angle my head and squint, trying to convince myself it’s not a total disaster.

It would help if I magically hit puberty between now and going downstairs. My chest is still completely flat, my hips straight, my body this stubborn, boyish line, while the other girls at school are out there turning into Victoria’s Secret models in real time. Every day, someone else shows up with new curves and boobs, and I’m just here in my training bra, waiting.

So fucking unfair.

I grab a handful of tissues from my desk and shove them into my bra for the third time, trying to sculpt them into something that resembles actual boobs. No matter how carefully I arrange them, they still look lumpy and pathetic. With a groan, I rip them out and chuck them onto the bed. I don’t need to give people another reason to laugh.

The eyeliner pencil on my dresser catches my eye. I pick it up on instinct, rolling it between my fingers. Giving myself thick black wings is tempting, but Jeanine had pressed her fingers to her temples earlier and said, “Please, baby, for once, natural. It’s your sweet sixteen, not a funeral.”

I sigh and set the eyeliner down. My own reflection looks back at me, washed out and dull. But I don’t want to be me tonight. Being me hasn’t exactly worked out so far. I want to be someone else. Someone Carter might actually look at properly, not just as Liam’s annoying shadow.

“Vi, you ready?” Liam pushes the door open as he knocks.

I roll my eyes. “Why do you even bother knocking if you’re just going to barge in?”

He leans against the frame with a smirk. “I still knock, don’t I?” He gives me a once-over, an eyebrow creeping up. “Looking fancy. Didn’t think you owned anything that . . . pink.”

“Jeanine’s choice,” I mumble, picking at a sequin.

“It looks nice,” he says, which is obviously a lie, but I’m too over it to call him out. “Come on, everyone’s waiting for you.”

“Your friends are waiting for you,” I correct, crossing my arms over my tragic chest.

He jerks his head toward the hallway. “Let’s go.”

I take one last look at the girl in the mirror, all pastel satin and nerves, then breathe out and follow him.

My palms are slick on the banister as I hover at the top, stomach swooping. The music grows louder with every step down the stairs.

Somewhere below, Liam cracks a joke, and his friends roar. Beneath the noise, I hear it, low and gravelly, Carter’s laugh threading through the rest, and my skin prickles.

“Okay, you’ve got this,” I whisper to myself.

The second my foot hits the living room carpet, everything tilts. Heads turn. Conversations stutter. The music keeps going, but in my head, it fades to this dull thump behind the sudden awareness of all those eyes on me.

I freeze. Heat rushes up my neck and into my face.

“Oh my God,” someone off to the left snickers. “What is she wearing?”

Their whisper isn’t even that quiet. A couple of people laugh into their cups. I swallow hard and make my legs move, pretending I can’t hear them, while wishing at the same time for the floor to crack open and devour me whole.