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He shrugs and looks away. “I’m not… not really mad at you, man. Not like I used to be, at least. I know you have a lot going on. Just remember others do too, yeah?”
“Yeah.” I nod, relieved and discouraged all at once. “I get it.”
“I mean it about the high horse, though,” he goes on, his eyes narrowing on me. “You hurt Tessa, I’ll tan your hide.”
He doesn’t see that not inviting her over is the only way not to hurt her, but it’s all too complicated to explain, and I’m not sure it makes sense. So I just nod, knowing that, although Ash says he’s not really mad at me, I still have lots of amends to make.
Chapter Three
Tessa
It’s Saturday. The gala is today. And I don’t want to go.
Time just won’t stop on the happier moments. It tends to stall when you most want it to pass. I lie on my king-sized bed, staring up at the white ceiling. The clouds sailing in the sky outside the big window dapple the light, so that the room seems to ripple.
I close my eyes. I want to sleep clear through the weekend, until Monday. It’s not that I’m agoraphobic, or even shy. I like going out with my friends, but I hate these impersonal, stiff, huge gatherings, the fluffed-up women wearing all the jewelry they can carry and the men parading them around like trophies.
Weekend means spending time with my friends, hanging out, laughing and dancing. Only this reminds me of Dylan, and how he’s no longer part of my life. It hurts like a blade twisting in my chest.
Ugh. I burrow deeper under my warm covers, curl up and put my arms around my knees. I have to go to the gala, because Dad promised to listen to me afterward, maybe come to an agreement about college. We could smile at each other, reach an understanding.
I remember once… I was maybe nine, and I’d ridden my pony perfectly round the course. I won the gold medal, and he was so happy and proud. He smiled at me and stroked my face.
The next year I fell and broke my leg. I won no medal, and he was furious. Didn’t talk to me for weeks. Mom stayed locked up in her room. Mary, my sister, was away at a boarding school, and I was alone in the world, or so it felt like. And it was all my fault for failing my parents. For not pleasing them, not being good enough.
But Dylan was there for me. He’d come into my house through the window, sit and tell me jokes, make me laugh. No wonder I fell for him. He’s always been gorgeous, and so kind…
Crap. I scrub my hands over my dry eyes. Why am I thinking of this now? I am good enough. Audrey has been drilling this into my head for years now. Erin, too. I am worth something. Not being the best at everything doesn’t mean I’m a failure.
Throwing the covers off me, I march into the bathroom and jump into the shower. Stop overthinking, I tell myself. Audrey made me read long articles about low self-esteem depression and help. She keeps telling me I’m beautiful, clever, amazing.
A pity I can’t believe her. She’s only telling me all this to make me happy, to help me.
Am I beautiful? I wipe the steam off the full-length mirror covering one wall of the bathroom and stare at myself. I try to be objective, critical.
I’m tall and thin. My breasts are round and taut, large for my slender frame, though not as big as Audrey’s. My hips flare out from a narrow waist. My legs are long and strong. I go running three times a week and sometimes go to the gym. My skin is good. My blond hair is long and healthy.
Healthy. I look healthy. But am I pretty? Dylan dumped me. And although I kissed quite a few boys, I never let anyone else get close enough to do that. Never had a real boyfriend again, so I couldn’t be abandoned again.
So no help there.
As for being smart… What’s the use if I can’t discern who really loves me?
Clenching my teeth, I step back from the mirror. Well, I can’t see all these positive qualities Audrey talks about. In fact, it doesn’t matter what she says, what anyone says. I’m a failure. I see no proof that I’m pretty, and clever and amazing. That I’m wanted.
I want to find the evidence, prove to myself that I am all that. That I’m worth more than I get from my parents. From Dylan.
But that proof has yet to come.
***
Knowing my parents and what is expected of me, I spend the morning at the hairdresser’s and even have my nails done, before I return home to get dressed. A dress was sent for me from my parents, and I’m standing in my room, staring at it, trying not to freak out.
Now, if my parents want me to wear it and I want them—well, my dad—to be amenable to persuasion, then I should suck it up and wear what they sent me.
But… I finger the soft, shimmery red fabric, my pulse thumping in my ears. The dress is super short, its cleavage huge, and it looks more like lingerie, something meant for the bedroom rather than a dress for a gala.
Yet there’s no misunderstanding. I checked the note that came with it. Called to confirm. Yeah, this is the dress I’m supposed to wear. That, and the red high-heeled shoes that arrived with it, and the red coral necklace. It’s almost as if… as if they’re going to pimp me out, dangle me like a bright bait.
