Page 47 of Tracking Snow

I want to nod at her wise words, but that would fuck up the mascara I'm currently drawing up through my lashes.

We’re both dressed in the same style we wear for work, but it's Tuesday, and we have the night off.

Granted, I went for a sharper, darker makeup application that’s closer to what our goth friend Cinder would sport. Dark eyeshadow, sharp winged eyeliner, and dark purple lipstick that says, don't even think about it, bucko.

My mind drifts back to the last time I was at the Pumpkin Coach club, and a hard, merciless pang stabs into me. But I refuse, REFUSE to let one of my favorite places in the world be ruined by some...guy. Guys.

Whatever.

If I have to return to the PCC a hundred times with my girlfriends to override the one memory of fucking in the back dressing room with a guy who treated me like garbage, I'll do it.

Though technically, it wasn't only the fucking.

That would be easier to forget.

A heroic amount of tequila might be able to blur the memory of One's hands on me, his mouth, the way he seemed so vulnerable and open when I touched his face.

Enough bass drops might even shake loose the memory of One's voice when he called me beautiful.

But there isn't enough alcohol in the world to make me forget how it felt when he kissed me like he was handing me all his loneliness.

Or how stupidly, dangerously good it felt to hand him mine right back.

That's the part lodged under my ribs.

The part when, for one blinding second, I thought maybe he saw me. Not the human girl trying too hard. Not the magicless tagalong with sharp daggers and a bigger mouth than survival instinct.

Me.

Then he took it all back with both hands and left me standing there with my heart trying to follow him down the alley like the dumbest loyal dog on the planet.

With enough time, I'm sure I can scrub that memory out of my brain.

Maybe.

Probably not.

But a girl has to try.

Ariel rolls farther into my room, spinning one of the rings on her fingers. "For the record, you are allowed to have a bad time tonight."

I freeze with the mascara wand still held up to my lashes. "Wow. Inspirational. Put that on a throw pillow."

"I mean it." Her voice softens. "You don't have to be instantly over it because I decided we're leaving the apartment and trying something other than rotting our brains with old Hex Island episodes and gorging junk food while acting like some kind of godless gremlin who hates love and light."

"Whoa, rude. That is not what I've been like."

Her brows lift. "You hissed when I opened your blinds."

I mumble a protest, but quietly, because yeah, that was my reaction to the warm summer rays invading my moody territory.

Ariel's mouth twitches, but she doesn't push too hard. She doesn't say his name either, which I appreciate and hate in equal measure.

"But," she adds, "you do have to remember you were a badass before him. You were stalking rooftops, throwing daggers, and scaring purist dickwads long before some hot magic boy with seven flavors of baggage got his head wedged up his own ass."

My throat tightens as I turn back to the mirror. "I'm not moping anymore. I'm done. I have officially moved on."

"Okay," she says, not sounding convinced.