Make Me Whole

Chapter 04

Chapter 04 - Romy

I'm bundled up beyond belief.

Partly because I'm perpetually cold, and partly because the absolute last thing I need is someone to recognise me. I don't want conversations, questions or photos.

Speculation is already running rampant on why the It Girl went into hiding, while her mother—the woman she'd been following around like a lost puppy—continued her grandiose lifestyle. There were rarely days that I wasn't being spotted with my mother, whether she was forcing me into meetings to discuss what my next steps were, meetings where I couldn't get a word in edgeways, despite them surrounding my future. Or where she brought me to her friend's exclusive parties; her friends' parties were not what I consider fun. And, honestly, the idea of never having to step foot in another one almost makes the whole septic shock thing worth it.

Most of the rumours people have concocted consist of a few things: rehab, getting knocked up or someone bumping me off and a cover-up conspiracy. Illuminate type shit.

If I were to pick which rumour people settled on it would be Rome Kaia Douglas died, and thus, any sighting were purely people grieving her tragic death and coping with it by seeing her where she isn't.

With my beanie yanked down on my head and a large puffer jacket concealing the shape of my body, matched with baggy jeans that serve the same purpose, I look like everyone else. Well, everyone else that isn't used to freezing their tits off every other day. Or a girl looking to hook up with a hot hockey player, they tend to have their boobs out and pushed up to their chin—I genuinely respect it, that's dedication.

"You think they're gonna win?" Drew asks, her thin shirt irritating me because she does not seem cold in the slightest. "Because if Felix keeps playing like absolute shit they sure as fuck won't. I mean, come on, a little professionalism wouldn't hurt. I get it, you're hot as fuck even with the whole sick girl thing—it's actually annoying how hot you still are—and you two are like star-crossed lovers destined to be together but pulled apart by happenstance, all that bullshit. But grow a pair and get a little focus, hey?"

I snort at the rant, her knees bounce and I can see the dark tattoos poking through the rips in her jeans. Drew rambles, a clear tell the often unshakeable woman is shaken. "By the sounds of it, he's pissed he performed so badly last time. Finn says he doesn't shut up about it." I run my hands together, trying to get feeling in my fingertips back.

"Oh he's been so annoying about it, he's acting like you held him at gunpoint and forced him to be shitty." She rolls her eyes, eyes that are immaculately decorated with shimmery eyeshadow and thick, black eyeliner. It's so quintessentially Drew. "Honestly you two need to fuck the bad blood out, then we can go back to where everything was okay."

I listen to the ramble, hardly adding anything in. It's nonsense, one story never finished because of fifty tangents. All I reply with is the occasional word to confirm I'm still somewhat following along, smiles and nods.

When they finally come out my heart begins to race. I've forgotten what it feels like to watch people you care about skate out, knowing there's a high chance they're going to start a punch-up or get thrown into walls like it's going out of style. There's a certain set of nerves that bubble, the knowledge that no matter how rare it may be—and it is rare—people have died. And, if they don't die, they've been maimed severely. Broken legs, concussions, torn ligaments and gnarly cuts. Within a few minutes, the worry subsides, you just need to remind yourself that they're getting paid a shit ton and it's not so bad.

I base my reactions on the unfolding game on whatever Drew does, if she's clapping and shouting positively, I am too—less dramatically—likewise, if she's annoyed, so am I.