9781250209153

Freaking weirdo. I wash my face and take several deep breaths to clear my
head.
When I slip back into Honey-Belle’s bedroom, Irene is tucked beneath
the covers, playing on her phone. Her hair hangs long and wavy, the sides
of it brushing her glasses. I had no idea she wore glasses.
“You’d better not touch me,” she says as I crawl into bed.
“In what universe would I touch you?”
“You look like a hand-grabber. Or a footsie freak.”
“No chance, weirdo.” It’s a lie: I was always grabbing for Tally’s hand
when we shared a bed. I really hope I don’t subconsciously try that tonight.
“What are you holding?”
The slightest patch of color blooms in her cheeks. She keeps her eyes
glued to her phone. “Nothing.”
It looks like an old T-shirt, or maybe just a rag. She has it tucked under
her arm in a way that suggests regular habit.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
“Shut up,” she mutters, but she doesn’t say anything more.
“No, really,” I say, rolling my head toward hers. “What’s the story?”
She’s silent for an annoyingly long minute. “It’s my mom’s old shirt.
She let me nap with it when I was little.”
“Why?”
“Because it was soft,” she says irritably. “Why do you care?”
I shrug, unperturbed. “I just think it’s funny when you’re weird.”
“Everyone’s weird.” She rolls away and turns off the light. “Goodnight.
Touch me and you die.”
The way she says it, it’s almost like she’s trying to make me laugh.
“Sweet dreams to you, too.”
It takes me a while to fall asleep. I can feel Irene struggling, too. It feels
too intimate, too revealing, to sleep alongside each other like this. I’m too
attuned to her breathing cycle, to the sound of her cheek finding the cold
part of the pillow. I’m too aware of the smell of her hair, only inches from
my face.