Not Your Typical Love Story

Chapter Six

"Here," Bianca says as she descends the stairs, holding out to me a pile of clothes.

She does the action without a single trace of emotion on her face, not even sparing me a moments glance before she goes to her phone and looks at the inanimate object instead.

Actually, I was lying when I said there isnt any emotion. There is - but I honestly don't have a single clue just what that exact emotion is. You'd think that after a decade of friendship between us, I'd be well familiarized with nuances of her facial ques, but for some reason I couldn't explain the look, even to myself.

It was plain as day to see that her encounter with the Barbie doll had left its mark, and stripped her of the good mood she'd previously been donning. Bianca didn't really seem rattled as much as she seemed pissed, and so here stood in front of me a stone cold bitch. Admittedly, using the term bitch would be putting it harshly, but it wasn't exactly like the girl was some magic-shitting fairy-godmother at the moment either.

I don't have any semblence of a clue as to what the Aubrey girl had to have been referring to, but whatever it was had struck a nerve so hard with Bianca that it's elicited this type of reaction. Curiosity bites at me to ask about it but I have the feeling that if I dared do so, then Bianca would only bite harder, and I preferred to leave this party unscathed. Both emotionally and physically.

Her face had fallen grim, wearing a familiar look that I remembered her brother also use an unhealthy amount of times. I didn't know it ran in the family, seeing as I'd only ever experienced the look on Hunter, never on her. But the proof stood in front of me as she stood there looking stiff and closed off, unapproachable and moodier than a girl who was severely PMSing.

I forced myself to fight down any instinct to make some sarcastic comment on whether or not someone had pissed on her Cheerios this morning, knowing full well that the action would only warrant a snap in retaliation, or maybe a reaction far worse. Even as a child, Bianca had been prone to refer to violent tendencies, and I hardly imagined she'd dropped it now years older.

"Whose clothes are these?" I ask as I take them out of her grip, careful not to spread any of the whip cream.

Bianca had already changed from her time upstairs, what must've been her original party clothes shoved in a plastic shopping bag. What she's wearing now is more casual, a pair of jeans paired with a t-shirt that has some summer camp logo on it. Her hair is damp from how she ran water through it to rinse out the mess, and she'd tied it up into that one obnoxiously perky bun thing girls always do with their hair.

"Why does your hair remind me of a loaf of bread?" I question randomly, staring at the pile she has on top of her head.

She gives me a dude-what-the-fuck type of look, shaking her head without a response to my odd question. "How the hell did you get bread, of all things," she mutters under her breath.

I don't know either, but isn't my mind a treasure?

"The clothes are Ryan's," she says, answering my previous, more normal question. I make a weird glance at the clothes that she's wearing, also questioning where she'd gotten those. "His sister's," she explains knowingly, and I nod my head in acknowledgement.

"Heyo!" The sudden outburst makes both of us jump for the second time that night, turning to find the source of the overenthusiastic greeting.