“Um, no, not really.”
I shook my head, gently placing the stilettos on the shoe rack in my closet. “Just because you haven’t noticed anyone doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
I went to grab a pair of black boots, but tripped on another pair of purple heels and found myself diving toward the floor at the same time that Mickey straightened from picking up a flowing silver dress. His head bashed into the bridge between my eyes in a mini supernova. My body arched backward into the air before slamming down on the carpet, my left leg hitting the bed frame.
“What the—” I cupped my face in my hands, taking deep breaths.
Mickey knelt down. “Let me see it.” He reached his hands toward mine, but I turned away, rocking back and forth as the throbbing slowly—way too slowly—started to fade a bit.
“Here, let me see it,” he said, his concern mixing with frustration as I shook his hands off.
“Stop. Being. So stubborn,” he said, prying my fingers away until he sucked in a breath. I glared at him, yanked my hands out of his and back to where they belonged: cradling my throbbing face.
“It’s not so bad,” he said, keeping his voice light.
“Yeah, right.” My voice was muffled. “I’m going to have two black eyes just in time for Homecoming. I can already tell.”
“No, I don’t think it’ll be that bad. I bet with a little ice—maybe some cream—it’ll be fine.”
“Obviously, you’ve never been hit smack dab between your eyes before.”
“Obviously,” he said dryly. “Hey, I’ll be back in a second.”
I didn’t bother to nod, too busy hating life. Wait, did I dislocate my nose? I gingerly probed the area. It didn’t seem like it. Well, that was something, at least.
Mickey jogged back into my room holding a tub of who-knows-what and smacked my hands away from my face.
“Don’t touch it,” he said. “I’ve got something for the pain.” I winced as he smeared the cream on my face.
“This royally sucks.”
“Stop talking.”
“You have a sucky bedside manner.”
He ignored me, finishing the application.
“How do you feel?”
“Like you broke my face. How do you think I feel?” My voice came out muffled and whiny, but I didn’t care.
His brows drew together. “You should be feeling better. At least the pain should be gone now.” Mickey leaned closer, examining my face. “And the bruise is still spreading,” he said to himself.
“Well, yeah. It just happened a couple of minutes ago.” I glanced down at the jar of cream. “What’s that supposed to be, some sort of numbing lotion? You should probably check the expiration date.”
He muttered something under his breath that I didn’t pick up.
I might have been in pain, but even with a throbbing face, I didn’t miss the troubled look that crept over Mickey’s face.
“Hey,” I said through my hands. I lowered them a bit and would have attempted a half-smile except, well, I’d just gotten hit right between the eyes, and it still hurt. “Hey, it’s no biggie. It’ll clear up in a couple of weeks. I think.”
“Right, just like your other bruises?”
I shrugged, avoiding his eyes. I thought I’d been covering them up pretty well, but I guess I wasn’t doing as good a job as I’d thought. And Mickey was right, they were sticking around for a lot longer than they were supposed to—something that was really starting to bother me.
“Well, on the bright side, maybe I’ve developed some sort of blood disorder and I’ll be dead before Homecoming.”
“Haha. Awesome job at trying to make me feel better,” Mickey said absently, like he was preoccupied with puzzling something out. Whatever conclusion he was reaching, he didn’t seem to like it one bit. His whole face changed into some sort of ominous—
Mickey’s eyes shot up to the clock. “Hey, I know this is bad timing, but Bridgette and I have a project we’re working on, and I gotta go.” He met my eyes for a second before glancing away, his face the picture of genuine regret. “Sorry about that.”
“Um, yeah, no worries. Like I said before…” I shrugged. He’d already chaffed off my lame attempt at helping him feel better.
“Yeah.”
Mickey left, his movements tense and swift.
I looked back at the mountain that was now more of a hill—thanks in part to Mickey—and sighed. Might as well get it over with. I picked up another hanger.
If I was going to die from a blood disorder, it would be nice if it’d happen before I had to figure out where to put the rest of this stuff.
Angry. That was what shoving a gazillion clothes into a closet did to a girl. I knew that we did not walk out of Seelies with twelve different dresses all fit for a princess—and not just a homecoming princess, either. How they got there on my bed was a mystery.
I glared down at the small pile of clothes that refused to go away no matter how many I shoved into the closet. I did not want them, I did not need them. And I definitely did not want to spend my entire afternoon trying to squeeze more and more into an already-packed closet.
I grabbed one of the empty blue Seelie bags, thinking I’d trash it to get it out of the way, but something was still in it. I fished out a pair of sequined tights and tossed them on top of my dresser. I balled up the bag and threw it into the wastebasket…and watched as a flowy red skirt shot out of the bag, landing on the floor.
I crept over and poked the skirt, but it stayed still. I cautiously lifted the skirt between my two fingers and looked back at the bag long enough to see a green top and a pair of blue socks getting tossed at me like someone was on the other side, throwing
