The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die (GirlXGirl)

Chapter 19: Sarcasm as a Shield

The day had dragged on like a snail on sedatives. By the time the last bell rang, I felt that familiar pull of exhaustion—not from the physical grind, but from the emotional labor of keeping everyone at arm's length. It was easier that way. Safer. Or so I kept telling myself while dodging the emotional landmines scattered around me.

I hurried down the school's front steps, earbuds already in place, blocking out the noise of chatter and laughter around me. The bus stop loomed ahead, a constant in my miserable routine. The yellow bus, the same damn window seat where I stared out without seeing, the mindless hum of the engine numbing my thoughts. It wasn't ideal, but predictable—something I could rely on like an old, crummy pair of shoes.

That's when AnnMarie's voice sliced through my cocoon of noise.

"Need a ride?"

I glanced up, my eyes narrowing as I spotted AnnMarie leaning casually against the side of her car parked near the curb. The offer hung in the air like a tempting trap, the late afternoon sunlight catching her dark hair, making her green eyes glint like a cat eyeing its prey.

For a moment, my instinct was to reject it. I could already feel the sharp retort forming on my tongue, something about not needing a chauffeur, about being perfectly capable of taking the bus on my own. But there was something different about today, something in AnnMarie's easy demeanor that made me pause. Maybe it was the fact that she didn't push, didn't make a big deal out of it. Just a simple offer, without expectation.

Still, old habits were hard to break.

"What, are you trying to win some kind of charity award?" I shot back, my voice sharp as I tugged at the strap of my backpack, attempting to look indifferent.

AnnMarie smiled, unfazed as usual. "Nope. Just thought you might prefer a ride to that ancient bus."

I rolled my eyes, but the jab didn't land like I intended. There was no satisfying sting in AnnMarie's reaction, no visible sign of annoyance or frustration. Just that calm, unshakable patience that I was starting to find more disarming than I liked to admit. It was like trying to poke a bear that just wouldn't wake up.

"I'll take the bus," I muttered, turning away.

I had barely taken two steps before AnnMarie's voice came again, light but steady. "Suit yourself."

That made me stop. There it was again—that infuriating, quiet persistence. AnnMarie wasn't chasing me down, wasn't trying to pry her way into my life, but she wasn't going away either. It was like she was giving me a choice, letting me be the one to decide whether or not to engage. And that was... confusing. AnnMarie's patience only added to the pressure building inside me, a constant reminder that maybe—just maybe—my defenses were costing me more than I realized.

I glanced over my shoulder, eyes narrowing as I caught AnnMarie's expression—neutral, patient, completely unconcerned whether I accepted or not. There was no pity, no hidden agenda. Just AnnMarie, standing there, waiting like a damn statue with no time limit.

Before I knew what I was doing, I let out a frustrated huff and turned back around. "Fine," I said, more to myself than to AnnMarie, as if the decision had snuck up on me. "But if you expect some kind of heartfelt thank you, you're out of luck."

AnnMarie's lips twitched into a small smile, but she didn't gloat. "Noted."

We got into the car, the silence between us thick but not uncomfortable. AnnMarie didn't fill the space with meaningless chatter, and I was grateful for that. I leaned back in the passenger seat, crossing my arms as I stared out the window, watching the familiar scenery pass by in a blur like a bad movie I'd already seen too many times.

"So," AnnMarie said after a few minutes of driving, her voice casual, "rough day?"

I let out a low, humorless laugh. "You could say that. More like a freak show where I'm the main act."

I could have left it at that, but something about the way AnnMarie asked made me feel like I could say more. It wasn't that I wanted to open up—it was more that I didn't feel the pressure to. And somehow, that made it easier.

"People are exhausting," I muttered, my voice edged with bitterness. "They're either too loud or too clueless, or they just don't get it. It's like they live in this bubble of ignorance and expect everyone else to smile and nod along. I mean, do I look like a fucking cheerleader?"

AnnMarie nodded, her gaze steady on the road. "Yeah, people can be like that sometimes."

I shot her a sidelong glance. I had expected some kind of pushback, maybe a comment about how I was too cynical or too harsh. But AnnMarie didn't offer any of that. Just agreement. Simple. Uncomplicated.

"You really think so?" I asked, my tone more curious than accusatory.

"I think everyone has their own way of coping," AnnMarie replied, her voice thoughtful. "Some people are loud to cover up their insecurities. Others retreat because it feels safer. But it doesn't mean they're not worth understanding. It's like trying to find a decent burger in a sea of kale salads."

I scoffed, shaking my head. "You sound like a motivational poster. Or maybe one of those cheesy therapy sessions."

AnnMarie laughed, the sound warm and unbothered. "Maybe. Or maybe I've just been through enough to realize everyone's got their own stuff to deal with. Doesn't mean they're all idiots."

I didn't respond immediately, the weight of AnnMarie's words sinking in deeper than I'd care to admit. I had spent so long pushing people away, using biting remarks to keep them at a distance, to remind myself that I didn't need anyone. But sitting here, in this car with AnnMarie, who seemed completely content with my sharp edges—it felt different. Terrifying, but different.

We pulled up in front of my house, the car coming to a smooth stop. For a moment, neither of us moved, the silence between us growing heavy again, but not in a bad way. It was the kind of silence that felt full, like something had shifted between us, even if I wasn't ready to fully acknowledge it yet.

"Well," I said finally, my hand on the door handle, "thanks for the ride. I guess. Don't get used to it."

AnnMarie turned to me, her expression soft, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—something that looked like understanding. "Anytime," she said simply, her voice sincere but not overbearing.

I opened the door, stepping out into the fading evening light. I stood there for a second, feeling the urge to say something more, to fill the space with another biting comment, something to reestablish the distance I was used to. But I didn't.

Instead, I gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and closed the door behind me. As I walked up to my house, the weight of the day felt a little lighter. Not much, but enough that I noticed.

Maybe it was just the car ride, or maybe it was AnnMarie's quiet patience that had chipped away at my walls, even if just a little. But as I stepped inside my house, the echo of my usual loneliness seemed a bit quieter.

I didn't know what to make of it yet, didn't know if I wanted to let that seed of connection grow. But for the first time in a long time, the idea didn't feel quite so impossible.

And that scared me more than anything else.