Not yet.
CHAPTER9
Anna
My brain is malfunctioning.
Like, actual system failure.Like, blue screen of death.Like, Anna’s not here anymore,
Why?Because she’s dead.
I stand frozen in my bedroom, heart racing, chest tight, every nerve ending on high alert.My body is stuck in DEFCON-1 Mode for no good reason.
No.That’s a lie.I know exactly why.
Because for one stupid second—one fleeting moment of insanity—Joel touched me.And hemeantto do it.
And worse?
I noticed.
Okay, another lie.I not only noticed—I becamehyper-aware.
Like some psychotic live broadcast where all I could focus on was the heat of his fingers barely grazing mine.And then I became aware that I was aware.And then I was aware that I was aware that I was aware.God, how is that even a thing?So stupid.
And then I ran—because what the hell else was I supposed to do?
Now, I’m here.Still spiraling.Still grossly aware of my own pulse, beating a little too fast, a little too erratic, like my body is rebelling against me.
I press my hands to my face, groaning into my palms.
“Get a grip, Anna,” I mutter, voice muffled.“It was barely a touch.A millisecond of contact.Less than a tap on a damn keyboard.”
But it doesn’t matter.
Because Joel doesn’t get to take up space in my head.He doesn’t get to sit there, all smug and unreadable, and worm his way under my skin like he belongs there.
I rip off my sweatshirt and fling it across the room, where it lands in a heap on my floor.It’s childish, but I don’t care.My skin feels too hot, too constricted, like his presence is still lingering, clinging to me, and I need it off.
Next, I yank out my hair tie, shaking my head like that’ll somehow dislodge him from my thoughts.A few strands get caught in the elastic, yanking at my scalp as I pull it free.
Great.Now I’m losing hair over Joel Price.
I glare at my reflection in the mirror above my dresser, my face still flushed, my expression tight.
You’re losing it, Anna.I mutter the words under my breath, pressing my palms against the cool wood surface, willing myself to calm the hell down.
Routine.That’s what I need.Something mindless.Something to pull me out of my own damn head.
I drop onto the small stool at my desk—the one my grandma gave me when I moved out, the same one my mom wouldn’t let me say no to.It’s an antique, or at least that’s what she told me when she forced it into my new apartment.
“A lady should have a proper vanity, Anna.”
Like I was suddenly going to start sitting here in silk robes, brushing my hair a hundred times like some 1950s housewife.
But tonight, I’m grateful for it.The routine.The ritual.The mirror is small, slightly warped from age, but it reflects the tired mess of my face just fine.
I grab my makeup wipes and scrub at my skin, a little harder than necessary, like I can physically erase the memory of his voice, his stupid smirk, the way his fingers barely grazed mine but still managed to set my nerve endings on fire.I work my way through my skincare—cleanser, toner, moisturizer—focusing on the motions, forcing my brain into autopilot.