Aparri x reader ~our love~

Chapter 3 (SOOOOO LONG!)

You used to love this stuff," she says, rummaging for a lighter shade. "Here, try this one — Moonlight Madness. It's got ground-up crystals or something."

I shrug and focus on the pictures of Helicopter Pilot's self-appointed mascot, the Air Guitarist, until she gets distracted mixing eye shadow shades on the back of her hand with a Q-tip. I can't fault her for trying. She doesn't know about Julian, the ghost that floats in and out of my heart, haunting and unresolved.

Don't worry. It's our secret.

"Do you like this color?" She bats her eyes at me and laughs. Something about her smile reminds me of him, and I have to look away to block the flood of memory. It's officially more than a year now. I know I should let go, but it never really leaves me. Every morning, I wake up and forget just for a second that it happened.

But once my eyes open, it buries me like a landslide of sharp, sad rocks.

Once my eyes open, I'm heavy, like there's too much gravity pressing on my heart.

I never talk to Mia about it. I never say anything about Julian.

I just swallow hard.

Nod and smile.

One foot in front of the other.

I'm fine, thanks for not asking.

"That color's great on you, Mia," I say.

"Have you seen my big powder brush?" she asks. "I can't find anything since Mom turned my room into the Hotel Sahara."

"Check those treasure box things on your desk." I nod toward a set of gold-colored boxes lined up smallest to largest.

Mia locates the brush in the middle box. "I have to put a lock on the door or I'll never find anything again."

For the past six months, Aunt Jayne's been on some kind of decorating kick. Every time I walk into Mia's house, something is different — new throw pillows or moved furniture, more plants or fewer, splashes of color or minimalist neutrals, a whirlwind of throws, shams, swags, and swatches. Last week, she transformed Mia's 1920s flapper bedroom into a Moroccan oasis, draped in deep purples and reds and wooden beads for curtains.

"It's like a new adventure every day," Mia said last month when her dragonfly bathroom became sexy cowgirl central almost overnight, complete with real rope lasso towel holders. I guess it's good that Aunt Jayne is excited about something again — running out to the fabric shop or the home-and-garden store whenever inspiration strikes, which is basically whenever one of those leave-town-and-let-total-strangers-redecorate-your-house-in-forty-eight-hours shows comes on. In the past month alone, she's filled half the garage with boxes of magazines, pillow covers, paint swatches, antiques, switch plates, and faux fur. There's only one room she doesn't touch — the one at the end of the hall. The one with the perpetually closed door that might as well not exist anymore.

"Mia, are you done yet?" I know all there is to know about Helicopter Pilot, including the fact that the rock-star drummer Scotty-O had a liver transplant when he was four, and I'm tired of watching Mia's head bob around in a hair-teasing frenzy. "I read this article so many times I feel like I'm in HP."

"Yeah," she says, "except that they're the best band in the universe, and you can't even sing 'Happy Birthday' in tune."

"Maybe not. But I passed my English final, which is more than I can say for some people in this room."

"Hey! Sixty-seven is still passing. And for your information, smarty, I just signed up for the word-a-day e-mails to expand my vocabulary."

"Oh, really?" I ask.