Some kids give us weird looks as they pass, but most don’t bat an eye because they’ve seen this very scene enough times; me, gnawing on my lip while Mickey scowls at the back of my head like he’s been personally victimized by my hair.
Simply put, he looks murderous every time he fixes my hair, like he hates it. Yet, every day he does it, and every morning, no one dares to say a word about it—other than Maxim and Mikhail, but Roman doesn’t need to know that.
Mickey grips me by the elbow and turns me around, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger as he gazes down at me. Warmth spreads to every inch of my body when our eyes meet.
This is what being loved feels like.
I sink my nails into the palms of my hands because one day, I’ll stop feeling this way. I’ll no longer know what adoration looks like. He’ll do someone else’s hair and call someone else beautiful. I want to bottle this moment up, lock it away, and keep it for myself because the feeling is intoxicating. But the sad truth is that, even if I’m meant to be loved, it will never be permanent.
“You’re so beautiful, Bella.”
He means it. Every letter and every syllable. Those four words are said from the darkest depths of his heart, not just the dopamine fired in his brain.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
I’ll never say that I agree. Maybe I am beautiful—even though I've never seen myself that way—or maybe I'm not. Beauty isn’t just something you put on or become blessed with from genetics. It’s a feeling that doesn’t need a mirror or a photo for proof or validation. And Mickey makes me feel beautiful, even on days when I’m disgusted with myself.
The school’s warning bell rings through the street, and I can almost hear the collective sigh of every student in the area.
“I’ve got to go… I’ll see you tonight?” I ask, hopeful.
The answer is always yes, but one day it’ll be no. I’d rather be prepared and face the anguish now than look like an idiot, standing around waiting for him.
He smirks. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.” Once he plants another kiss on my forehead, he grabs his helmet. My cheeks burn, and so does the spot where his lips touched. I’m too dumbstruck to do anything but stare at him.
“Don’t be late.” He winks.
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod helplessly, backing away toward another one of my versions of hell.
Chapter 9
ISABELLA
3 Years Ago
Roman: 19 years old – Isabella: 17 years old.
The rest of the morning goes by in a blur. Having to spend lunch without Mickey was the biggest adjustment, and most of the kids here knew to steer clear of me when Roman was around.
But at least I have Janelle. She doesn’t talk much; we just sit together and read because “girls stick together” and all that.
She’s leaning back against a tree, golden brown hair fanned over her shoulders. Now, she is beautiful. In the understated, geeky sort of way. It’s the kind where with a good haircut and a dash of mascara, every girl and boy would be transfixed by.
We have a couple of classes together and always pair up for any group activities. She’s kind of boring, though I wouldn’t be surprised if she thought the same about me. The only things we have in common are classes and our love of books and art.
She did give me a birthday hug this morning, which was nice, I guess.
Then we went back to ignoring each other.
Like now.
Fine by me; my book is just getting to the good part. Finally. It took about three hundred pages.
“Is that book three?” Janelle nods to the book I’m holding, then takes a bite of her sandwich. We’re at Mickey’s and my old hang-out spot, another blind spot on the school grounds.
I nod. “The last one in the series.”
“Any good?”
“Honestly, I’m just glad it’s over.”
She snorts. “Say no more.”
“My favorite character was killed off, so—"
“I heard a rumor,” a rough voice says from behind me.
Janelle and I tense. Two silhouettes stretch around us, and then the shadow falls over me, blocking the sun. Slowly, I turn around and brace myself for whatever is about to happen. I already know who is behind us. Only two people at this school have the guts to talk to me after everything Roman did.
Mikhail and Maxim, the identical twins that started this year. The only difference between the two is the beauty spot on Maxim’s cheek.
“Do you know what the rumor is?” Mikhail asks, staring right at me.