The Place Where Broken Hearts Go h.s.

Chapter 10: Velvet

velvet: (noun) a fabric of silk, nylon, acetate, rayon, etc.

"Will you sit still?" Isabelle groans.

I clamp my hands around the bottom of the stool, and run my tongue along the roof of my mouth to avoid spitting out a cruel remark.

Isabelle dances around me, wrapping my hair around the barrel of a curling iron. Unfortunately, I have the most hair of anyone I have ever met. It is excruciatingly long and hopelessly thick. Though I often receive compliments, shaving my head is a constant consideration.

When Isabelle asked to curl my hair, I instantly denied. Regardless, she is still the most persuasive person I know and three hours later she is curling my hair. I glumly think about what a pushover I am while she swirls my locks into shape.

"I'm getting bored down here," I complain.

"Not my problem," Isabelle quips.

I purse my lips. Patience was never my forte.

She sighs and then says, "Just think about how good you're going to look, and what Harry will think when he sees you."

I blush and cover my hands with my face, which Isabelle quickly swats away from getting in the way of my curls.

"He doesn't even like me," I mumble.

Isabelle clucks her tongue. "All is true until proven false."

"That's not even a real saying."

"Will you shut up? I'm trying to give you confidence."

I give Isabelle a pleading look. "Blue, I'm going to watch you two tonight. I will be able to tell if Harry likes you or not. Think of me as your own fairy godmother."

"Harry's not the easiest one to read," I point out.

Isabelle rolls her eyes. "Whatever, once he see's your hair it will be obvious."

I laugh half halfheartedly.

I have never ran into Harry intentionally, and it is a terrifying situation. I am scared he will ignore me, or pretend that we didn't hang out. Worse, I'm scared he will be over whatever kind of interest he seemed to have. Who knows if the time apart made Harry realize what a dud I actually am. I was hoping to keep up with the intriguing facade for a little longer. I swallow, and decide not to think about it.

"Isabelle?"

"Yes?"

"I can't remember a time when you were not curling my hair."

What seems like hours later, I am slipping a fancy dress Isabelle bought over my head. It's dark navy and more fitted than any other dress I've ever worn.

I look into the mirror, and practically gasp in surprise. My eyes are glowing, and my hair looks put together for once. I swing it over my shoulder to take a look at the back. The back of the dress swoops low, showing my tan back. I am grateful to be wearing my hair down, uncomfortable with the idea of strangers staring at my back all night.

Isabelle emerges from her bathroom, and squeals in delight.
"Blue! You look gorgeous! Oh my god you're so hot," She places her small hands on my shoulders, and inspects my makeup.

"Me? Look at you!" Isabelle is wearing a shiny gold dress with black stilettos that make her legs look endless.

"Okay, I look awesome. But you, my friend. To. Die."

I smile and turn back to the mirror, feeling hopeful that maybe Harry will think so too.

The mansion is even more obnoxious than I remembered. There are already red solo cups swimming in the fountain.