Tangled Hearts.

~Chapter 15~

~Raelyn~

~Monday, October 10th~

I made it back to the house, thanks to Colby—chauffeur of the year and reluctant ride-share driver. My hair looked like it lost a paintball fight, and my face had enough color to qualify as an abstract masterpiece.

What a day.

The moment I stepped inside, I collapsed against the door like I'd just returned from war. Mentally, emotionally, and artistically exhausted.

Safe space? Activated.

I pulled out my phone, flipped the camera, and snapped a selfie with my face still looking like I'd face-planted into a palette. "Picasso who?" I captioned it before throwing it on my story. Add a little humor, sprinkle in some existential crisis, and voila! That's how I cope.

Straight to the bathroom. I peeled off my crime scene of an outfit while the shower warmed up. When I stepped under the water, it was like I'd been baptized in paint thinner. Red, blue, yellow—my very own personal rainbow spiraling down the drain.

And because my brain refuses to chill, it dragged me right back to the car ride home with Colby.

He got me makeup wipes. Makeup. Wipes. I didn't even ask.

What was that? Chivalry? Guilt? A weird werewolf version of an apology?

Was he being... nice? Was that legal?

I shook the thoughts away and focused on more pressing matters—like surviving calculus.

~

One hour, three mental breakdowns, and two calculator batteries later, I was officially cooked. Curled up in my sweats, I tried to make sense of derivatives, but they all started looking like ancient runes.

Then AP Lit decided to humble me even further.

The only thing holding me together was the knowledge that I could do all this from the comfort of my office instead of being paint-splattered in public.

But of course, my brain, being the traitor it is, wandered.

Colby.

Grumpy, broody, emotionally constipated Colby.

Why did he have to be so... sweet today? Wiping paint off my cheek with the gentleness of a Disney prince in flannel. Ugh. I hated it.

Except, I didn't.

~

After conquering my schoolwork like a true warrior (barely), I walked to the kitchen, filled a bowl with ice water, and dunked my head in like I was bobbing for apples at an exorcism.

Ten seconds in. Ten seconds out.

"Much better," I muttered, water dripping down my chin as I patted my face dry with a dish towel that definitely wasn't clean.

Back in the office, I tried to decompress with YouTube. Cats falling off furniture. A goat singing "Let It Go." Nothing was working.

I knew who I needed.

I hit FaceTime, and before the ringtone could even ding twice, Tara's face exploded onto the screen like she'd been waiting by her phone all day.

"RAELYN. Why the hell did you bail on us today?! We saw the paint thing on Snap—are you okay?! You looked like you lost a fight to a paintball gun!" She shouted.

"Ouch, I have ear drums, and they don't appreciate your shrieking!" I retorted.

Katrina's face shoved in next to hers. "No seriously, what kind of art class allows combat? We're in college, not the Hunger Games: Crayola Edition!"