Before it caught fire, my hair was tied up into a ponytail on top of my head, which I guess explains why it burned the way it did. The flames started at my neckline, so first they ate off the long pieces hanging down from the pony tail, the pieces that were pulled up my scalp and into the elastic band that held everything in place before it too turned to ash.
Now I study my reflection so I can see exactly what is left: the hair closest to my neckline has been singed almost completely off, as though someone took a razor to it. The hair closer to the top of my head didn’t burn completely, but the tips of my ponytail burned off. The layer of hair I have left isn’t even long enough to pass my shoulders.
On the bright side, the frizzball is a whole heck of a lot smaller.
I must be feeling better if I’m back to looking on the bright side of things. I’m not sure I could have found the bright side of things with a magnifying glass yesterday.
Slowly I unwrap the strip of cloth from Lucio’s T-shirt. The cut on my palm is long but not deep. I run it under cold water in the sink, biting my lip when it stings.
I can’t believe I almost kissed Lucio. Or almost let him kiss me.
Don’t lie to yourself, Sunshine. You almost kissed him.
Maybe he was the one who started it, but I had plenty of time to stop it before we got as close as we did. He literally announced his intentions ahead of time. I could have run away from him right then and there, but I didn’t. I waited until our lips were only a heartbeat apart before I pulled away.
Lucio is not the boy I want to kiss. I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to kiss him. Not exactly. It’s just . . . I want to kiss Nolan more.
Nolan. I miss the sound of his voice and his calm assurance that every problem has a solution that can be found if we just look hard enough. I should have asked him to look for the solution to this problem—to us.
Why does it feel like I just cheated on my boyfriend? Nolan isn’t my boyfriend. Can you call someone your boyfriend when you’ve barely touched him and never kissed him?
But today isn’t the first time I’ve felt this way. It’s felt like cheating every time Lucio touched me, every time I leaned against him to soak up his warmth, every time I compared him to Nolan.
So now I don’t just feel like I have a sort-of boyfriend I can’t kiss; it also feels like I’ve been having an affair with someone I could kiss but won’t.
I get into the shower, washing off the soot and the sweat from the day. By the time I emerge from the bathroom, the sun’s long since set. I go to my room and shut the door behind me, climbing under the covers even though I’m still soaking wet. The tips of my newly short hair brush coolly against the nape of my neck, and I remember Lucio’s fingertips brushing against the very same spot.
I lift my phone from the nightstand. I should call Nolan and apologize. But what exactly would I be apologizing for? Besides, it’s abundantly clear that he does not want to talk to me. He hasn’t called me once since I got here, not even after I left him a message practically begging him to.
Victoria’s letter said Nolan was my protector, that our lives would be tied together for as long as we lived. But no one ever asked him whether he wanted that job. I can’t help what I am—I was born a luiseach. But maybe Nolan doesn’t have to be a part of all of this.
If I let him go, maybe he could live a normal life. He could find a regular girl—no, not entirely regular. Nolan would still want someone quirky, maybe even someone who believed in ghosts and spirits just like he does. But this girl would be able to walk down the street without tripping over her shoes, and she’d be able to make it through the day without any spiritual interruptions. She’d have a regular name like Jessica or Jennifer or Elizabeth, and she’d be able to touch him, to hug him, to kiss him.
He’d be so much happier with a girl like that. And if I care about him as much as I think I do, I should want him to be happy. Even if that means being happy without me.
I toss my phone onto a pile of dirty clothes on the floor across the room. I won’t trudge out into the forest behind the house, searching for a signal so I can call him again, won’t leave him another message updating him on the latest luiseach shenanigans, asking him to call me back. Maybe, if enough time goes by, he’ll forget he ever heard the word luiseach.
Maybe he’ll forget he ever knew a girl named Sunshine.
In my dreams tonight I’m not a helpless infant, crying mournfully. There is no face hovering above my own, no arms holding me too tight.