Liquid Feels - Book 3 - DP Series - Complete

2. He's Taken

My lips are still humming from yesterday's encounter as I braid my long blonde hair into the finest mess the eye has seen. I've got that type of hair that is neither straight nor curly and somehow manages to just look like a stringy disaster most of the time. I have no qualms with my hair though. In fact, I think I love its wildness... makes me feel as though it's a true extension of my personality.

I allowed myself to sleep in today since I have no classes, but I definitely should have embraced my pillow a little longer. I'm bored out of my mind! I'd purposely taken a light semester because I knew I'd regret packing my schedule with too much education. Now I'm starting to rethink my decision. When all your friends are being studious, it kind of demolishes the joy of having a little extra freedom.

Plopping down on my bed, I scan through pictures of butterflies until I've found a decent selection of different types and colors. Then I print them all off and cut them out. With scissors in hand, I cut several strips of plastic lanyard cord and string five or six butterflies on each one.

I'm smiling to myself as I climb on my bed—doing my best to balance on a stack of overstuffed pillows—and begin hanging each strand from the ceiling. It's a bit of a strain, but I don't mind the challenge... until I fall off my bed and slam my skull against the edge of my side table.

With a groan, I flop down and bury my face into the rug so I can yell out a couple of profanities without alerting any neighbors that there's an issue, and then roll back over to stare at my handiwork hanging above me. I've still got about seven strings to hang and my brain is quite literally throbbing from the impact. Mustering my way off the floor, I head to the bathroom for a peek at my injury and smile at the deep red line imprinted across my hairline. At least I have evidence to justify the pain.

My headache is motivating me to hurry up, so I head back into my room and pull a chair from my desk. Maybe the crushed skull incident actually knocked something into place, because the chair is definitely a more logical choice for the job than a pillow tower.

I hear the doorknob twist a few minutes later and the sound of my roommate's voice as she greets me.

"Sup," I respond, determined to get this one particularly stubborn string of butterflies to stay in place. I hear Emma drop into her bed with a groan and then there's silence.

"What?" I prod, jumping off the chair to grab another strand of butterflies.

And then she proceeds to tell me about this boy who hates her guts. I almost joke that that's not a possibility now that she's spilled all her guts out to me, but I bite my tongue. I like this girl. As whiny and reclusive as she sometimes is, there's something about her that's intriguing. I sense a little rebellion within her and my curiosity refuses to dismiss her before understanding it completely.

"So, what," I start to say as I plop myself down on my bed, "you're trying to make him fall in love with you?"

"No. That'd be impossible," she tells me. "Friendship; just friendship is what I'm hoping for."

Lies. All lies. That's what I want to scream at her. But considering I've only known this girl for three weeks, I forbid my tongue from being its true self and instead harness the judgment. My brain swims around for a moment looking for something safe to say and then settles on, "What have you tried so far?"

This conversation is beginning to feel like a plastic sack suffocating the sunshine from my day and I know it's time to find a new activity. Leaning over to my bedside table, I squeeze a drop of lotion into my palm and lightly run it over my sloppy braid, freezing momentarily when I catch Emma eyeing me with concern.

"What?" I shrug. "It keeps the frizzies away."

When I ask what his reaction was to her apology and she starts mumbling about not having done it yet and how much of an idiot she is, I have to refrain from rolling my eyes. Emma is the type of person I usually find myself avoiding. Not because I'm cruel, but mainly because I don't know how to relate to them on any level. I say what I need to say and I don't beat around the bush, but it seems Emma might crumble into a pile of broken glass if I start hammering her with the truth.