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“And what temptation are you giving in to, Laine? You’re not a fucking drug addict or a murderer like him! What could possibly be more sinful than that?”

“YOU!” Laine’s voice has now reached the loudest volume I think I’ve ever heard from her. “You’re the temptation I gave in to, Drew! You make me feel things I was never supposed to feel! You’re the first person I think of when I wake up and the last person before I go to bed.

“You make me feel so conflicted because you make everything feel so easy in your presence, but once I go home, I’m hit with this terrifying guilt that there’s something wrong with me for feeling that way about you. You’re the song that’s stuck in my head that just plays nonstop on repeat again, and again, and again, and again, and I can’t turn it off !”

The familiar feeling of streaming tears feels numb on my face after weeks of crying and wallowing away in my room. I can’t feel my shaking limbs, only static in them. My head feels uncomfortably pressurized, and when I go to open my mouth, nothing comes out.

My heart pounds abnormally fast, and the whole parking lot feels like it’s spinning. Soon enough, I can’t tell whether the moisture on my face is sweat or tears.

Then, she hits back.

“I’m going to start seeing Donovan, so out of respect for him, please don’t text or call my number again.” Her voice returns to normal volume but turns firm. “I need to forget you, and I think it would be best for you to do the same.”

The line goes static, just like the rest of my body.

******

The drive home feels ten times longer than the drive over. And of course, since the universe absolutely fucking hates me, a Folklore song comes on from my shuffled playlist, the same one I teased her about on the drive up to the mountains. I let it play, cursing myself and the world under my breath for the entirety of the song.

Finally, it ends, but then another song from the album plays. The lyrics start to blend together, and I can’t audibly piece together a single line.

Normally, this would be the moment the waterfall flows again, but this time, I have no more tears left to cry. Only stale numbness fills my eyes.

All she’s left me with are songs that remind me of her. Now that she’s gone, I don’t know how to listen to them anymore.

20

Laine

“Ilike it.” Donovan smiles as he stares at my painting,

putting an arm around my shoulder.

“Thanks,” I mumble, subtly flinching at his touch. “It’s got a funky look to it, ya know. Like, I can tell

she’s tryin’ hard to tempt the painter she posed for, but ya almost feel pity for her. Like she don’t even know the power of her own seduction.” He cocks his head to the side as if staring from a slightly different angle will help him unlock all the painting’s hidden easter eggs. “Something like that.” My gaze reverts back down to

my shoes as I awkwardly try to think of what to say.

It's officially been two weeks since I told Drew not to contact me, and one week since Donovan and I started talking more than regular friends should. He’s a nice guy, and my mother likes him, which means I like him. It means I’m back on the right track. Although I can’t help but feel like everything with him feels so forced.

I’ve been reminding myself that maybe we’re just in the awkward part of the talking stage and that it’ll probably feel more comfortable once we spend more time together. After all, thatiswhat happened with me and Drew, and that wasn’t planned. I could like Donovan if I tried. Iwantto like him, I really do.

Father Robert smiles at us as we arrive at Holy Trinity and make our way into the main gathering room. Donovan and I got roped into decorating the stage for Valentine’s Day, which no doubt was a ploy that our mothers set up.

I’m not complaining, though, because this is the perfect opportunity to spend time with him without having to make awkward small talk about the project I’m trying so hard not to think about. It’s not that I’m not proud of my work. After all, I managed to change the trajectory of it to not make me feel sohorrible when I look at it, but deep down, I know the origin of it, and that origin is exactly what I’m trying to push out of my mind.

“Take that end over there.” Donovan points to the end of a long sheet of heavy-duty poster paper and takes the other end, dragging it along the side of the stage. “Right there.”

I tape my end of the paper to the stage, and Donovan tries to do the same, struggling to get a knotted wad of tape untangled using his only free hand. Eventually, he gets the tape unstuck and sticks it to the stage.

“Alrighty.” Donovan smacks his lips and rubs his hands together like some sort of mosquito. It icks me out a little, but I try to ignore it, grabbing a paintbrush and dipping it in the red paint to draw hearts along the edges of the poster paper. Donovan follows suit, painting smaller hearts in pink.

When we finally meet in the center, hearts neatly scattered, bordering the poster, I reach over him and dip a clean brush into the black paint to spell “Valentine” in the center.

“Woah, Laine!” Donovan grabs my arm and holds it above the paint bucket, black paint dripping from the brush back into the bucket. “How are your hands already covered in paint? All we did was paint some lil’ hearts.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I tend to get paint everywhere when it comes to art.” I laugh, awkwardly trying to ease the tension.