Page 19 of Piggy

Charlotte

I dress slowly, feeling like I just got knocked unconscious. Like I walked out of a fever dream.

Grayson left me wrecked, bottom up, drooling, completely unraveled. And alone.

As my clarity steadily returns, my thoughts run faster. Panic sets in.

I gave him everything. Every moan, every tear, every humiliating part of me. And I thought it would be enough.

That last moment, I could have sworn his walls were down for good.

I was wrong.

I’m always wrong when it comes to that man.

Once my legs stop trembling and my breath evens out, I find a bathroom and wash away the sin. I tame my hair. Dress again.

And cry. Soft at first. Then harder .

Until the mirror blurs with tears and I’m clutching the sink just to stay standing.

When I can breathe again, I leave and find Atticus, sitting cross-legged on the front stoop, sword still holstered.

Grayson’s truck is gone, along with any hope he just needed a minute to gather himself too.

Atticus looks up at me, his face full of innocent worry. “You okay?”

I nod, trying to stay composed for him. He doesn’t need to know or worry about his sister.

“Grayson seemed mad,” he says. “Did he try to kiss you and you denied him?”

I chuckle and shrug. “Yeah, bud. Something like that.”

He nods seriously. “When I find the right girl, our first kiss will be magical.”

“I bet it will,” I whisper.

It’s strange to me, but before, that would have warmed my heart. But now? I worry for my little brother. Worry someone will break his heart and he will feel the excruciating pain I’m feeling.

“Maybe a girl like Brax dates,” he muses.

I hold back a smile and ask with genuine curiosity, “Why them?”

He shrugs, slightly bashful. “They are nice to me… pretty. They like to look at things in my room.”

I nod. That’s true. Women sometimes wander into his room and get enamored by his figurines and swords on the wall .

We sit there for a half-hour. No Brax.

“Grayson still not back, huh?” Meghan’s voice floats behind me.

I glance over my shoulder, then shake my head.

She smirks.

“Did you tell him you love him?”

I pause. Swallow. “...he knows I do.”

“Mistake.”

The word is like a knockout punch. I frown, jaw clenching. She says it like she knows him better than I do. Like she’s been here before. Like he left her ruined, too.

Probably did.

I turn back toward the driveway, ignoring the jealousy crawling at my heart.

“I’m sorry,” she adds. “But he’ll never give you what you want.”

As if I need the reminder!

Then, Brax’s truck rumbles down the circle drive.

Thank God.

I bolt to my feet, heart pounding. I don’t say goodbye. Don’t even look back.

Let Meghan watch me walk away. She can keep her wisdom.

Brax scolds me as he thumps the steering wheel. “Stop obsessing over my friends!”

I nod solemnly, promising without hesitation that I’ll never do that again.

The weeks drag like a slow death.

At night, I find myself staring into Grayson’s empty bedroom, hoping I’ll catch a glimpse of him. Shirtless in bed. Dabbing cologne on his neck by the window. Sitting on the edge of the mattress with his hand outstretched, that sweet look in his eyes, the one that made me rush to his lap.

But there’s never anyone there. Just shadows. Just memories.

So, I bury myself in work, picking up every shift I can. Anything to stay distracted. Once, I caved and drove to his job on the docks. They told me he quit. Weeks ago.

I even went to Meghan’s.

Freaking pathetic... But she said he never came back. Even assured me he wouldn’t return.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe true love doesn’t exist.

Therefore, every day, I tell myself to move on. And every day, I fail. Because I still ache for him. His mouth on my neck, his arms around me at night, his smile at lunch, my car mysteriously full every Monday, the scent of his cologne lingering on my clothes...

That deep, sinful voice whispering things he meant only for me.

Months pass.

Months.

I sit on the couch, tucked in my usual corner, ready to escape to my room as another Friday night party starts to swell with people and noise.

“Hey, Charlotte,” says Keysha, Brax’s new girlfriend.

She’s stunning. Black hair in soft waves, dark chocolate skin, a heart-shaped face, and the kind of hourglass figure I’ve always dreamt about.

“Hey,” I mumble.

“Why do you always look so sad?”

I shrug. Numb. “Because I’m lonely. Weird. Ugly.”

Her eyes widen. “ Damn , girl. You’re too hard on yourself. You’re pretty too.”

I lift my shirt and pinch my pudge. “I’m a pig. I squeal too, even when I don’t want to. And my hair...” I rip the ties from my messy pom-poms. A wild, frizzy blond mane bursts free.

She tries not to smile.

“You wouldn’t understand,” I mutter. “You’re gorgeous. Your body, your makeup, your hair...”

Keysha snorts. “Girl, you think this is natural ?” She holds out a glossy lock. “This is not my hair.”

“What? You iron it or something?”

She laughs, full and loud. “It’s a wig. Or weave. Or extensions. Whatever I feel like. You can have hair like this too. ”

“I can?” I blink, stunned.

She shifts closer, taking a chunk of my wild hair between her fingers. “Mmm. This is some of the craziest white-girl hair I’ve ever seen. Texture overload.” She smirks. “But I can work with anything. Want a weave? A soft fro? Buzz and dye it pink? Options, baby.”

I just stare at her, mouth parted.

“No one’s ever done your hair before?”

I shake my head.

She exhales. “Then it’s time. No way Brax’s little sister is walking around with that frown. Not on my watch.”

I nod eagerly. “ Anything. Please!”

And just like that, she’s gone. Then back. Soon I’m sitting on the floor with my back against the couch, nestled between her knees as she works.

Combing. Parting. Tugging. Braiding.

At a party!

People glance over, watching her work like it’s a show.

“What color you want?” she asks, opening a box full of hair, all neatly sealed in plastic sleeves.

I pick out a long, straight black one. “Like Meghan. Can you cut it short? In a bob?”

She recoils. “Black? With your complexion? No way. You need warm tones. Honey blondes, caramels, reds.”

I bite my lip. “Surprise me.”

She grins and pulls out something golden .

One braid at a time, she sews the wefts to my scalp, the needle threading between the rows like magic. Compliments start rolling in before she’s even done.

“Now makeup!” someone calls.

By the end of the night, I’m standing in the bathroom, staring at my reflection.

I don’t recognize myself.

But I love what I see.

For the first time in months, I feel beautiful, and not because of Grayson.

When I return to the living room, a uniformed man bursts through the front door, followed by another and another. They have rifles drawn, lots of tactical gear, and thick bullet-proof vests.

Holy—!

They yell, “Get down! Get down!”

Some people try to run out the back way, but more officers greet them.