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Scarlett

I have this feeling.

I don’t get them as often as I used to, especially not with how well things have been going lately. But there’s this feeling. I’ve been waiting weeks for the other shoe to drop, but it’s been too quiet. I know Broody and Casanova snuck into my room again, I just don’t know when.

Two weeks ago—during a particularly devious horn-dog episode—I flipped back through my diary for a specific entry, but I found something else. Somebody blew their load all over the fucking page, rendering it completely unreadable and unusable for my masturbation sesh. I had to buy a new diary and everything because the pages were stuck together.

Plus, it’s fucking gross.

They’re nothing if not thorough, so I expected to hear something about how fucked I am for thinking about them, yet continuing to avoid them. But…there’s been nothing. No texts. No midnight visits. No maskless ambushes at the bar to follow Dario’s footsteps.

They want me to think they give a shit—but they don’t.

Glancing at Penelope on the other end of the couch, I see that she’s nose-deep in her phone, which means she’s not watching the new movie I paid money for us to watch. She doesn’t even look up when I toss a piece of popcorn at her. She’s tapping away on the screen like her life depends on it, and I thought it was funny at first, but now I’m kind of annoyed.

“Hello?! Pen, what’s up? We only have a few hours left on this rental, or else we have to buy it again,” I scold, and she finally looks at me. There’s something wrong with her eyes; they’re glazed and glassy, like she’s about to cry. “What’s wrong, is everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. Go ahead and start it over. Sorry.” She laughs nervously, but I’m not buying it. I have a smartphone, so I’m not ignorant of the fact she’s deleting a text thread—quickly enough that I don’t have time to lean over and see who it’s from.

I pause the movie and adjust my ass on the couch until I’m facing her. Looking directly in her eyes, I ask, “Who was that?” She’s doing everything in her power to avoid making eye contact with me, but I persist. “Penelope, tell me what’s going on.”

She finally looks at me for a fraction of a second before dropping her shoulders in defeat. “Okay, but you have to promise not to be mad, alright? It’s really not a big deal and your life is so good right now with Dario, and the apprenticeship, and school that I don’t want you to get in your head and start overthinking and—”

“Penelope.”

“I slept with those guys…the ones you used to see at Eden before you met Dario. I don’t want it to be a big deal. I know you liked them, but you said I could go for it, and so I did. But you were totally right about them having no boundaries, and he won’t stop texting me now, and he threatened to tell you if I don’t…” She pauses to take another deep breath. “So here I am. Telling you.”

There it is.

There’s the other shoe.

She lets out a massive sigh of relief, like all her sins have been absolved because she finally told me the truth. Except, someone had to force it out of her. She just admitted that she knew what fucking them would do to me, else she wouldn’t have gone on a fucking rant about how fucking perfect my life is.

Yeah, it’s fucking peachy.

“When?” I ask, standing from the couch and carefully placing the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.

“Huh?”

“When?” I repeat. “How long have you been fucking them? How long have you been keeping this to yourself?”

She jumps up, but I take a step backwards when she tries to come near me. She’s crying now, the tears streaming down her beautifully pinched cheeks. “Scar, please.” She cups her hands over her mouth and nose, shaking her head. “Please, I’m so sorry.”

“Fine,” I concede with a titter, pulling my phone from the pocket of my hoodie. “I have his number too, you know? If my best friend can’t be honest with me, maybe her fucktoy will.”

Penelope panics, throwing her hand out to stop me. “Three weeks!” she shouts. “It’s been three weeks since it happened. It was only once, I swear, babe. Please-please-please—”

“Three weeks…”

I don’t bother finishing the thought. Looking up to meet her gaze, I take in a different kind of horror than the one I was expecting to experience tonight; her face is blood-red, which doesn’t mix well with the pale complexion of her skin.

All I do is nod my head at her and turn on my heel to go to my room—locking the door behind me to keep out the remnants of our frayed friendship.

I’d much rather have finished the movie.

I wasn’t bluffing earlier .

I sit on the balcony for hours—a cigarette always lit in one hand and my phone in the other—with Broody’s text thread open on the screen. I’ve been contemplating what I should say, or whether I should say anything at all.

Penelope’s right about one thing; I shouldn’t care. I told my diary as much, and that’s why they did this. They knew it would hurt.

So did she.

Just because they knew, doesn’t mean I’m not still an asshole for caring. I have Dario, she’s right.

Dario, who I’ve been falling into the same comfortable habits with as I did when he was The Prince. Dario, who knows how to love me on paper, yet there always seems to be something missing. Dario, who if I really consider it, could probably sleep with Penelope and I’d be more angry at him than her.

Something’s missing from this relationship, and I think there always has been. Something’s missing from me . Casanova and Broody didn’t just break me into a million pieces for the fun of it—they strategically cut the glass of my soul to fit their own shattered fragments.

To make us one.

Reading through the text messages we’ve sent to one another, there’s obviously more passion on this screen than whatever I have with Dario.

That’s fucking sad, but it is what it is.

One stands out in particular, giving me an idea for my rebuttal. I know how much they like to recycle words on me, so I type out my message with a beaming smile, forcing the tears in my eyes to retreat.

“Why do I feel like you’re not being honest with me, diavolina ?” He’s accusing me of lying as if he already knows—and yeah, I’ve been omitting the truth—but he can’t be certain .

There’s no reason for me to hurt him any more than this already is, and it’s not like I cheated or anything. I knew he wouldn’t take it well, but I wasn’t expecting to sit here and overexplain it for an hour.

“I’m sorry, Dario. I mean it, I just have too much to focus on right now. I have a little over a month left until finals, and I’m already falling behind this semester. I have a plan…I had a plan.”

I did.

I always have a plan, but they never quite work out.

Dario sits across from me in the booth, staring at me with disbelief spread across his face. I don’t know how he didn’t see it coming, honestly. I tried—I really did—to make it work.

It’s been three weeks since Penelope told me about her rollaround with the boys, and I tried to keep going. But I know I haven’t been myself. I haven’t been a good partner to him, and I haven’t been a good friend. I still haven’t spoken to Penelope, but she’s giving me space.

I tried to continue my relationship with Dario as if nothing happened, but in the end, I’m finding it impossible. Every time he makes love to me, I wish they were fucking me. Every time he whispers sweet nothings in my ear, I wish it was Casanova’s tongue doing that thing he knows I love. Every time I suck his dick, I wish it was Broody’s cum sliding down my throat.

Every time I look at Dario…I see the absence of them.

But make no mistake, I’m not breaking up with Dario for their sakes. I’m a decent fucking person usually, and I don’t want to put someone through hell because I can’t be in it as much as he is. I’m not crawling back to them. I’m not going to fuck them. They’ll never touch me again, unless they beg me on their hands and knees—and even then, I might not let them.

No. I want to hurt them.

“It’s them, isn’t it?” he asks, and the question throws me off course. “It’s the same as the last time you left me. You want those degenerate fucks. Admit it, Scarlett!” He slams his fist on the table, which only draws the attention of everyone trying to enjoy their meals in peace.

I thought Andy’s Diner would be a nice, public place to do this. My mistake. I wasn’t expecting his use of my real name to sting so badly. He hasn’t called me anything other than diavolina or bellezza since we got together, so his intended bite has an effect.

I put my palms on the table and slowly rise, sliding out of the booth to head for the exit. “I told you, Dario. I’ve got too much on my plate, and I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” I don’t allow him another word before I’m out the door and getting into my car.

It’s a short drive home, but somehow, I feel ten times lighter than I did on the drive over. I’m finally my own person again—without the weight of a boyfriend, backstabbing bestie, or chaotic duo making me feel like I have to do anything for someone other than myself.

Balcony cigarettes in April feel almost as good as they did when autumn rolled in. The wind whips through my tangled hair, fucking it up more than it already was. I haven’t showered yet today, but I will. I just have a few things to do first. I check my texts one last time before getting ready, but the same two messages have been sitting there for three weeks.

Setting my phone down, I pick up the package that was lying on the porch when I came home. It’s a little gift to myself for being such a good girl. If I’m going to do this—if I’m going to go back there—I’m not going without protection.

The packaging tape falls away with little effort, thanks to my new ruby-red stiletto nails. Inside is a gorgeous OTF knife with a shiny red handle. I test the spring a few times to get a feel for the blade and how it works. Can never be too prepared, you know?

It’s late by the time I finish eating, showering, and gathering everything I need for the night. Penelope stopped me in the hall and pleaded with me not to go, but if I don’t get to weigh in on what she does…she surely doesn’t get an opinion here.

Even now, she’s banging on my fucking door, begging me not to do this. She says I don’t need it, I don’t need them. But I don’t need her to tell me that. I turn up the volume on my laptop to drown out the sound of her incessant voice.

“Take Me Back To Eden” by Sleep Token seems like the perfect send-off song to start the night with. Thank you, Skylar, for your impeccable taste in music.

For once, I’m staring at my reflection in the mirror and actually like what I see. It’s just missing one thing.

I opted for a red, floor-length gown with a thigh-high slit up the side of my left leg. Beneath the slit is my knife garter, strapped with my beautiful new blade. The silk fabric of my skirt comes to a high-waisted band and opens into an A-line halter top—the fabric crossing diagonally over my chest to leave a cut-out of skin where my sternum lies.

Taking one final breath of innocence, I throw away any ideas of who I used to be, and welcome the girl I’ll be from this point on. The mask slips on nicely, and at last, the mirror’s reflection is perfect.

Red is my color, after all.