In short, I would be well within my rights to demand blood. Or his firstborn. Or whatever I wanted, really, except his integrity, because he doesn’t have any.
Giselle unfolds a never-ending arm and presses her finger between my eyebrows. “Stop scowling, baby. Or the wind will change, and you’ll be stuck like that.”
“Good. It would suit my personality.”
She rolls onto her back and laughs at the ceiling. My sister is twenty-four—seven years older than me—and when I was a kid, I wanted to be her. Maybe that’s why, even now, whenever she laughs, I do too.
We’re still giggling when someone knocks on my door. I wait a second for Mum to breeze in without permission, plonk herself on the bed, and steal my phone to scroll through TikTok.
When that doesn’t happen, I frown in confusion and Giselle grins in response. “Oh yeah. Forgot to mention: Bradley’s here.”
“What?” It’s supposed to come out frosty and disgusted, but I accidentally squawk like a bird.
Giselle snickers and taps my forehead again. “Deep breaths, Cel.” Then she gets up and saunters to the door. I don’t quite believe her until it swings open and, yep, Bradley’s standing right there.
I haven’t seen him framed by my doorway in…years. He looks different but the same: taller and older, sure, but wide-eyed and nervous like he used to be. My bedroom lamp is weak and warm, so he’s mostly shadow. Shadowed expression, except for the gleam of his dark eyes; shadowed hands, clutching and releasing the strap of the satchel over his shoulder. Maybe he’s not Bradley at all. Maybe he’s something strange and familiar that crawled out of the past.
But, you know. Probably not.
We stare at each other for a second in what seems to be mutual shock, although I’m not sure what he’s shocked about since he presumably carried himself over here on his own two legs. Then Giselle flicks him on the head and says, “Brad,” as she leaves, and he jolts like a toy coming to life.
“Um.” He clears his throat. “Hi, Giselle. Bye, Giselle.” My sister’s already thundering down the stairs, probably desperate to gossip about this with Mum because they are both nosy cows.
Bradley hovers awkwardly in the doorway.
I remember, belatedly, that I am sitting in bed wearing pink pajamas with little red lobsters all over them. Dropping my phone, I pull the duvet over my legs and adjust the pillow propping up my left wrist. Bradley’s eyes follow the action, and he winces.
Winces! As if he’s got anything to wince about! Then he looks away. His gaze wanders from my dark green walls, to the collection of candles on my bedside table, to the lights set up in the corner where I film my best videos. I bristle. “What are you looking at?”
He starts. “Er…nothing. It’s. Just. Different in here.”
Well, yes. The last time he was in my bedroom, the walls were lilac, and my bed had a heart-shaped headboard. But then, the last time he was in my bedroom, I was fourteen and quite clearly an idiot.
Maybe if I’d been cooler then, instead of an unapologetic weirdo, he wouldn’t have ditched me for his glossy new friends.
Then again, I am still a weirdo （just, you know, a very gorgeous and stylish one）， so the point is moot. Only boring people give a crap what everyone else thinks, and Bradley Graeme is the most boring human being on earth.
But I’m not.
“What do you want?” I demand.
“Can I come in?” he asks, the words slow and squeezed, like his throat’s a near-empty tube of toothpaste.
He wants to come in? This situation is highly suspicious. Highly suspicious. “What for?”
He rolls his eyes, which is more familiar and relaxes me ever so slightly. “To talk, Celine, what do you think?”
“Fine.” It feels like someone’s stitching my stomach together. My voice comes out tight.
He treads lightly, as if the cream carpet might be booby-trapped. “I…er…brought you some stuff.” He unzips his satchel and goes to sit down on my bed.
I make a noise like a game show buzzer. “Nope.”
He straightens with a huff. “Well, where am I supposed to sit, Celine?”
“Who said you could sit, Bradley?”
His cheeks are too brown to show a blush, but his throat is turning splotchy red. “Jesus,” he mutters, and kneels （kneels! I should make a note of the date and time） beside my bed. Then he produces a little plastic box and unclips the lid. “Dad made you these.”
My heart calcifies and sinks down into my stitched-up stomach. “Oh…er…great.” Tucked neatly into the box are four chocolate cupcakes decorated with silver sparkles—my favorite. And they’ll be delicious because Trevor Graeme made them, but for that very same reason, I really don’t feel like putting one in my mouth.
It’s not that I don’t like Trev. In fact, it’s the opposite: he’s basically a caricature of a perfect father who was put on this earth to taunt me with what I don’t have. He and Bradley are best buds!!! And they go fishing!!! And Trev loves and admires his wife!!! Back when Brad and I were friends, the hardest part of our relationship was not drowning in mortifying jealousy every five seconds.
I know that’s childish and ridiculous and pathetic. I’m just feeling sensitive because my wrist hurts. I put my dark feelings carefully away and say: “Tell your dad I said thanks.” Now that I’m being mature, I could probably choke down a cupcake （or two, I deserve it）， but eating dinner one-handed was a bit of an adventure and I’m not about to make a mess in front of Bradley. So, I put the box aside.
He nods. “I brought this too.” He pulls my philosophy book out of his bag. “Your, um, leaflet’s in there.”
I press my lips tightly together.
“How’s your arm?” he asks.
“Screwed.”
He has the absolute gall to look upset. “That’s not a real answer, Celine, come on.”
“Fine, it’s fractured. Happy?”
“Of course I’m not happy!” he says hotly, his face sort of crumpling. For so long, he’s only looked at me with smugness or irritation, but now he’s giving actual human expressions that change every five minutes and it’s—
I don’t know. It must be the fading painkillers that are making my internal organs jump around like this.
“You don’t think I did it on purpose, do you?” he demands. “You know I didn’t. Right? Celine. Do you?”
I’d almost forgotten the way he talks nonstop when he’s nervous. “Shut up. You’re giving me a headache.”
His jaw tenses. “You do. You think I did.”
Christ, what is he, a mind reader?! “I don’t know, Bradley. You had a perfectly good grip on me and then you pulled away—what, completely by accident?” Disbelief drips from my words like candlewax, but at the same time, I’m not certain what I believe. His eyes are pure kicked puppy right now, and surely he’s not that good an actor.
Instead of arguing, though, he just says, “Why didn’t you tell your mum?”
“Why didn’t you tell yours?” I toss back.
He grimaces. “Don’t want them to fall out, do I?”