My hand felt tingly afterward, but I refused to let it show as I studied the number written on the back of it. All I did was nod before turning away and walking off. I didn’t get very far, however, because I remembered he had my pen—so I spun on my heel, marched back to him, and plucked the pen from his grasp.
“You don’t get to keep my pen,” I muttered, reaching behind me to stuff it back into the side compartment of my bag.
“Don’t worry,” he told me, practically radiating energy, “by the time this project is done, I’ll steal more than your pen.”
I was about to ask him just what the hell he meant by that, but Mason winked—he actually winked—before walking away, leaving me speechless. I watched him go, my mouth falling open. A wink? Really? I thought winking was reserved for books or movies, not real life.
And why would he wink at me?
That thought, along with his smile, lingered in my head all throughout the day. My attention span was hardly great on a usual day, but today it was absolutely shattered. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t listen to any of the professors drone on and on about their topics. All I could do was stare at my pen, at the number on the back of my hand, and wonder why I felt so…conflicted.
It’d been so long since I’d had a crush, so long since I cared enough to think about anyone else like that. They were all pointless feelings, anyway, because as soon as someone knew the real me—not the boring mask I wore around in public—they wouldn’t want to spend any time with me, anyway.
Nobody liked someone who was always sad.
I was careful to avoid any bathrooms during the day, making it home with the number still written on my skin. What I should’ve done immediately was transfer it into my phone, but for whatever stupid reason, the moment I did that, everything would feel more real.
I hated myself sometimes.
No, okay, like all the time.
When I got home, I was alone, though not for long. Mom was an elementary school teacher, so she’d be home within the hour. Michelle was at her classes for the day, and then she’d probably go hang out with her boyfriend. Dad wouldn’t get home until later, having started his shift at the practice later in the day.
It was fine. I liked being home alone. It allowed me to spend some time outside of my room, to relax and not have to worry about faking any smiles or small talk. After dropping my bag in my room, I headed downstairs, my phone in my hand. I plopped myself on the couch in the living room, turning on the TV for mindless sound.
My eyes fell to my hand, to Mason’s number.
Shit. I should really put it in my phone and go scrub it before my mom got home. She’d ask me countless of questions I just didn’t feel like answering. Going on a date? I knew the boys would start lining up for you eventually. All you have to do is put yourself out there. It’s really not hard, Bree. It’s how I met your father.
Blah, blah, blah.
No dates for me.
I unlocked my phone and put Mason’s number in, saving it before hoisting myself up and heading into the bathroom upstairs. I figured it was about time to shower—since it was Friday and my parents had the weekend off, they’d never let me hear the end of it if they saw me with greasy hair.
I had no idea why, but showering just felt so…pointless. Plus with how my hair was, it got greasy after twelve hours. No way in hell was I going to wash my hair twice a day just to look normal. I was pretty sure with how pink it was, normal was out of the window, anyway.
Why was my hair pink? I didn’t know. I turned to bleach and color a few years ago, suddenly deciding that I could cut my own hair and style it however the fuck I wanted. It’s why my bangs were a bit too short, cut a bit too jaggedly, and why my hair was an ungodly shade of pink. It kept most people away from me, at least. Not many people wanted to talk to a girl that looked like a freak, so it saved me some energy, at least.
After locking the bathroom door, I started to shed my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. I stepped into the tub, pulling the shower curtain closed before turning on the water. The other good thing about not washing my hair every day was that the color lasted longer. You couldn’t get dye like this permanent; it had to be semi-permanent. Every time you touched heat or shampoo to it, the color faded.
After a year of fumbling around with different brands though, I’d finally found an electric pink dye that stayed more than six washes before becoming a soft pastel. Yeah, I was not a soft pastel kind of girl. Those hair colors were somehow considered cute and in-style. Whatever. Leave me and my bright pink hair alone, thank you.
I swept my hair over a shoulder, letting the warm water pelt my back. I stared at the numbers on my hand, running a finger over them. Now it was up to me to text him, something I did not want to do. Up to me to make the first move, which sucked. I did not like being the one who had to make the first move now.
Fuck. Should’ve just given him my
