You're Not Alone

It wasn't just his looks. I mean yeah, the first time I ever met him, I thought, oh wow he's pretty cute. It wasn't until later, when I started getting to know him and really looked at him that I thought, okay, he's really hot. And it wasn't just his gorgeous sparkling blue eyes or his black hair or the constant smile that always seemed to be on his face; it was his laugh when I said something that no one else would ever consider funny, the fact that I felt safe enough to tell him things I would never even dream of opening up to anyone else about, let alone a guy friend, the fact that he was constantly trying to make me feel better about myself and encouraging me when all I did was tear into myself because I didn't think I was good enough in/for anything, the only person who could make me smile when all I wanted to do was cry and be depressed if only because I loved him so much.

Looking back, I can't believe I was so stupid. To tell him all those things, to let my guard down, the walls I had built up so carefully that no one else even bothered trying to knock down because I was so menacing, to fall so hard and fast after I swore to myself I would never be that girl, that stupid girl you read about or hear songs about because my past made me so much stronger than that, but that stupid girl is exactly what I became. But I thought he'd felt the same way. I thought he loved me enough to wait until we could actually be together. Obviously I was wrong and just... stupid.

Now I really do know better. Now I will never ever ever let anyone in that close again, at least not that fast, because I never want to feel that type of heartache so much that—as cliché as it sounds—I really do feel physically, a tugging, throbbing ache every time I picture his face or that 3AM conversation or try to bring back his voice. And I'll never let anyone know I feel this way, especially about him.

A knock at the doorway—I have the door open—brings me out of my thoughts. I have a text message from him, but I haven't opened it, don't want to pour even more salt on the wound than I have today alone.

I look up. I'm sitting cross-legged on the bed. Kendall's standing there. “A penny for your thoughts,” he says as he strolls in, as if we're best friends, as if he wasn't the one who said to ignore each other. Wasn't he just supposed to come in here, grab stuff, and leave? “Your eyes look all glazed over,” he explains, “like you're in a whole 'nother world.” He thinks for a moment. “Why are you here, Belly? What's up?”

For whatever reason, I still can't stand him being nice to me, and I really don't want to talk about anything right now, not even my mom. I'd never tell him or anyone everything else. I learned from that mistake. “Call me Belly one more time, and I'll kill you,” I say as mean as I can, but I'm too out of it for it to have any real effort.

He doesn't look convinced either. He smiles, although it doesn't light up his green eyes. Then he rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say. Just came to get something.”

“Yeah, I figured,” I say, the bite finally back in my voice. Kendall frowns.

He goes to the dresser and stops on his way. I'm wearing a camisole, and he sees my shoulder blade. He smirks. “So someone else has a tattoo.” He sees the crescent moon I got right after my 19th birthday when I finally had enough money for my first ink. It was my first and still my favorite of all that I have now, even though I still have to crane my neck or look in the mirror just to see it. I should have a shirt on. Now he's going to ask about it. Stupid.

“Tattoos,” I correct him.

“Multiple.” He raises his thick yet somehow gorgeous-because-they-perfectly-frame-his-eyes eyebrows. “Where are the rest?”

“Places you wish you knew about,” I shoot back, only slightly meaning to be suggestive.

He leaves one eyebrow raised, then turns around and starts rummaging around in the drawer. Now he's also wearing a sleeveless shirt, so I can see the tattoo on his arm. It's fully colored, red, it looks like a stitched up heart.

“Kendall?” I say quietly but loud enough for him to hear, and then I regret it, hoping he didn't hear.

He did. “Hmm?” he doesn't turn back around.

“Why do you care?”

“What?” he sounds confused.

“You asked what's wrong. We're not friends, we're not going to be friends. And technically we don't even know each other, 1st grade doesn't count as 'knowing each other'. So why do you care?”

He finally turns around to face me and shrugs. “I'm a caring person. You looked sad. I was just being nice because you looked like you could use someone to talk to. But obviously I don't count.”

“You're the one that told me to ignore you. And also, don't take it personally. I wouldn't tell you even if we were good friends.”

“There's just one thing I don't get,” he says. “Why you would come here of all places when you're running away. Because according to you, we 'don't actually know each other'. And you're acting all mopey and running off anyone who tries to talk to you and be nice to you. So why would you call up my mom, if you wanted to be alone, and you didn't want anyone you actually knew to talk to?”

I look down and pick at nothing on the covers. “I'm damaged, okay? But that's obvious enough. And that's it. End of discussion.”

He sighs, looks at me for a moment as if he has no idea what to do, then sits down next to me on the bed. “I wasn't serious you know. If you wanna be friends, fine. I forgave you a long time ago, Arabella, like when I was 5, and I've been so busy I haven't even thought about it since. I mean yeah, I remembered you, wondered how you were doing now, but I honestly didn't even remember all that crap until you just brought it up. And if you don't want to be friends, but just want someone to talk to... You may think you like being alone, but no one likes to be alone. You don't have to be.”

I laugh bitterly, fisting the covers in my hand and finally looking up at him. “Karma's a real bitch, right? Look at you now, all famous, because you're still the same nice person no matter how bad someone treats you. And I've always been mean, and look at me, an adult runaway.”

My phone vibrates again, and this time I look at my messages. Kendall takes this as his cue to leave, because I feel the pressure of his weight leave the bed and his presence leave the room. Sometimes I really really hate nice people when I'm feeling like crap, because even though it's selfish I want everyone to feel the same or just leave me alone to wallow in my misery. He's wrong. I can't stand people, period. I love being alone.

I shut my laptop that's on the bed beside me and stuff it in the case. Then I pull the strategically torn tee I was wearing over my head and gather up what few things I had taken out of my suitcase. Then I think better of taking that thing with me; I want a quick and quiet get away without questions, and with Kendall in there on the couch and Mrs. Schmidt probably lurking too, that would be way too conspicuous; they would immediately know I was leaving. Nope. Quiet getaway.