Five words. That’s all it takes to make the tension in my muscles relax to the point I almost become a weightless feather in the wind.
I tried extra hard to do my hair this morning—not that I don’t do that every other morning, but today is special. My crazy, thick hair is one of the things Mamá and I had in common. Every day she would plait her long dark hair into two French braids, then turn to me and do the most elaborate hairstyles.
She was obsessed with turning me into her own personal Minnie Mouse, giving me space buns or crazy pigtails with gigantic ribbons.
“Here,” Mickey says softly, gently turning me around. “Let me.”
Roman has many faces. Most of them, he never shows to the outside world. This side of him? It’s all for me. The one that evens my pigtails, fixes the many braids I’ve done, and reties the ribbon so it’s perfect. Cassie might see him elbows deep in an engine, but she’ll never get to experience this part of him. She’ll never know how it feels to have her heart swell with each tug, and her eyes will never well with unshed tears.
He’ll never truly understand how priceless that gift is.
I smile to myself, remembering all the times I’ve walked out of the house with my hair down as he gawks at me like I’m a whole other person. Every time, he’d pull out a comb and get to work on my hair. Each move of his hand is always practiced and precise, and he’s careful not to pull too hard or tie things too tightly.
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.
We say nothing. Sometimes they get bored and move on to terrorizing someone else. Those who aren’t part of a pack always become prey, and to the hunters in our year group, Janelle and I are the wounded rabbits.
I jolt when Maxim snatches the book from my hands. “He asked you a question.”
Neither of them pays Janelle any mind, and I send her a mental message to run. She’s not about to play hero, and there’s no point for the both of us to be victims. Girls stick together, but a herd of gazelles will do nothing to stave off a lion. You run, and only the fastest will survive.
“What rumor?” I say.
If their attention stays on me, Janelle will be able to leave. She must realize this because she quietly stands and gets the hell away.