Other Side of Beautiful (A Beautifully Disturbed #1) (11 page)

Chapter 19

Elle

It feels like I’ve only just closed my eyes. Turns out to be two hours of sleep later the alarm buzzes ridiculously loud in my head. I slap the snooze button a couple of times, knocking it from my nightstand. No sunlight shines through the window, only a dull, overcast stream splintering off from where the night and day collide. But it has to be cold outside, because I can see every puff of breath evaporating before my eyes. The furnace must have cut out. First thing I reach an icy cold hand out to grab my cell phone, placing an early morning ‘get your ass out of bed and fix my heater call’ to the building manager. I hold the phone away from my ear to keep from going deaf he yells at me so loudly, using words sailors wouldn’t say in gentile company.

Finally it’s just enough and I tell him, “Call me what you want, I don’t care. Just do your job and get someone here.” And I hang up on him.
I
hang up on somebody.

Huffing out another breath, feeling the cold seeping into my bones, I dread facing that wind chill outside. It’s shaking the exterior wall, and really all I want is to keep myself snuggled in my comforter for the next couple of hours until I see Ben again.

It’s the one thing I miss about California—I picked the wrong state for hating cold weather. My perfect little sister wouldn’t have to be awake now and bundling up. Gathering up my memories of quilts and couches and cuddling to keep me warm, I find the courage to dart from my bed to the bathroom across the hall, rubbing my arms kept hugged around my chest to get my blood flowing.

The furnace might be out, but thank the good graces of the universe that the water heater still works. It feels like I could have run a marathon in the time it takes for the water to heat up enough, but once the pillows of steam billow up from the showerhead, I strip down naked and step under the spray, letting the heat massage my muscles, soaking my hair. Squeezing a handful of apple-scented shampoo into my palm, I work it to a lathered frenzy into my scalp. The bubbles run down my face, stinging my eyes.

As I reach out of the shower for a towel to wipe the shampoo away, I touch a hand right as a throat clears, making me jump and knock over the bottle of apple conditioner sitting in the shower caddy. “Jesus, Kel!”

“You know how absurd you and Benton look hanging all over each other? It is all over the internet. Every social media site. Pick your poison.” So she is really ready to attack with me naked in the shower. Slight disadvantage, but I can handle her. I can.

“Sorry you feel that way. But I’m sorrier I didn’t tell you about us first. And I think that’s where this is coming from.”

“Don’t go all psychology major on me, because you’re not one. But yes, you should have told me. I was with you two the whole weekend. How did you keep it from me?”

“We weren’t really hiding it, Kel. You just didn’t want to see it, I guess.”

“You know how I found out? From Heron Jenny, Elly. Heron. Jenny.” Heron Jenny dons the mascot costume at all non-athletic events. “Can you imagine my surprise at receiving a text from her asking if I knew you and Benton Hayes were at the deli swapping spit? I thought she was mistaken until I saw the video on YouTube. I mean, why of all people would Benton want you?” Yeah, ouch. That comment comes with a bite. “But there you were tongue deep, making an ass of yourself.”

“He’s a wonderful guy. I’d hoped you’d be happy for me.”

“Why in the hell would I be happy for
you
? I brought him for
me
. He is supposed to want
me
.” Sorry? Clearly that had to have come out wrong.

“Even knowing how I feel about him? You never once voiced an interest in Ben.”

“Open your eyes, Elly. There’s not a girl on campus who doesn’t want to fuck him.”

“So what? You thought you’d throw it in my face?”

“I thought I’d save you the humiliation of wanting someone who could never want you back. But then he pulled that one-eighty, so I thought…”

“What Kel, what did you think?” It challenges me, to keep my voice from cracking, to keep my emotions in check. But she cannot hear how much her words hurt me. I cannot, will not allow it. She doesn’t get to have that power over me. Not today. And it is tough because that damn superpower, that failure, is just waiting to rear its ugly head.

“Well, all right then. If you must know…I thought…I thought he just wanted to try you out. See what it’s like to be with a girl your size.” My mouth falls open, practically drowning me from the spray of water. I cough and grab my head, falling against the wall tiles to stabilize my shaky legs. My eyes burn again, and I want it so badly to be from the stupid shampoo. But the shampoo washed away several sentences ago. How could I not have realized before? Okay, so I thought it, but I’m allowed. It’s
my
superpower. But Kelly? How could I have been such a fool to think she was ever my friend, even a little?

It’s my turn to answer, but when I do, my voice, the betrayer, comes out shaky and feeble and so, so quiet I almost don’t hear myself. “Sorry to disappoint you,” I tell her, sounding so different from the unaffected Elle I want very much to be. This voice belongs to the girl I left behind in California. I hate it. And I hate her for bringing it back.

“Never pictured Benton as a chubby chaser,” she says coolly. And then I hear the finality of the door click shut.

How did my glorious weekend end up here? Not even a Monday. We skipped Monday. As I slump, still against the chilled tile letting the scalding water pelt my skin, I want to cry. I want to throw up. She’s never spoken to me like that, ever.

Two years of parties and concerts and coffee and study groups. Two years of girl talks and Oreos and shopping. Two years thrown away because something good, someone good finally happened to me. What now? How do we continue to be roommates after such a betrayal? Even if she apologizes for the words, her actions, her motivations behind them, our sisterly trust shattered the moment she cleared her throat.

Back across the hall in my bedroom, I sit on my bed wrapped in my big, fluffy, lavender bathrobe, trying to keep warm and listening for sounds of Kelly in the apartment. She left. After bitch-slapping my life, she doesn’t even have the courtesy to stick around for us to hash the rest out, if there is anything left to hash out.

What happens next seems inevitable considering the universe abso-fricking-lutely despises me, and my action or reaction to what happens next falls right in line. That damn phone on my bedside table lights up, flashing the green face of the Wicked Witch of the West. Cricket. Calling so early in the morning? Why would I answer? Why? But being a glutton for punishment, oh yeah, I answer it.

“Mother?”

“Don’t mother me. Why haven’t you answered my calls?”

“I was busy. I am trying to get an education here.”

“Why do you even try, Elly? You’re just like your father—”

“What do you want?” I cut her off.

“Is that a tone? Don’t take a tone with me. I had to get up at three a.m. to talk to you. Dr. Packard says you’ve stopped checking in. Stopped your video sessions.”

“He can’t tell you that. I’m over eighteen. There are HIPPA laws.”

“Maybe you’re forgetting whose money and insurance got you in there in the first place. Or how much I had to spend to get those videos taken off the web. I knew the day you were born, the spitting image of that man but with blotchy skin, a cone head, and that ugly pug nose, you’d be just as worthless.”

“I’m not worthless, Mom.”

“Now you listen to me, you will start those video sessions back up because I will not go through that humiliation again. Everyone knew what you did. Everyone. People still come up asking about you, judging me. My mother was right. I should’ve had an abortion.”

The shaking started after she hung up, the rocking, the hugging myself tightly because nobody else cares enough to do it, and then the tears spill. They always spill. I don’t want them to. She doesn’t deserve them. Neither of them do. Not Cricket. Not Kelly. But they come, and I’m unable to stop the flow, rocking harder, shielding my head to block out the words seared into my ears. It doesn’t work. And then it’s like I black out, only fully awake, running to the kitchen, to the cupboard where we keep the Oreos. I slide down to the floor in front of the sink, shoving Oreo after Oreo into my mouth, barely even chewing until the pain in my heart finally starts to subside. At the end of the mania I look, actually seeing the half-eaten package in my lap.

“What did I do?” I whisper to no one but the air, brushing the crumbs from my robe as I shove up off the ground and turn to throw the rest of the package away in the trashcan next to the refrigerator. Then I wash my face in the sink. I stopped. I stopped being this girl in California. What would Ben think of his girlfriend now? No one can ever know. He can
never
know. But at the same time, I’m scared to stay here by myself. The cracks are forming. Ben has strength. I need his strength. Because clearly, I’ve misplaced my own.

The hallway feels a million miles long, even though in reality it maybe takes twenty steps to get from the kitchen back into my bedroom, and only two more to reach my phone. He has no reason to be up, yet, allowing myself to fail at being a girlfriend, I push his number. He answers on the second ring, worry coating his groggy, woken him up from a dead sleep voice.

“Elle? Baby, what’s wrong?”

“
Ben
,” I speak his name softly, in more of a cry than a whisper. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“What? What happened? No, never mind. I’m coming, Brontë. I’ll be there in ten. Why don’t you stay on the line with me?”

“No. I have to get ready.”

“Okay, but you be out there in ten minutes, you hear?” I nod a response he can’t possibly hear and hang up. Failure.

He is coming. He is going to save me. Some of the tiniest fissure lines begin to seal back up. She gave me an opening and doesn’t even know it, a place to focus my energy on besides our fight. A way to keep me in check until he gets here. I use my ritual, taking the calming breaths I need to help me move. Because I only have ten minutes, and all my clothing, every drawer is emptied. Nothing left in the closet. It had to be Kelly. Who takes someone’s clothing? That’s sadistic.

Think. Think. Think
. My garment bag, the one I’d taken to Chicago, hadn’t been emptied yet, and if Kelly hadn’t checked it, then I’ll still have a clean bra and clean panties to wear. I’d tucked it far enough under my bed for her not to think about it, thankfully. Not only do I find the undergarments, but the black skinny jeans I’d worn to the concert were in there too. But a shirt? What do I do for that? The ones in the bag just aren’t clean enough to wear.

Inspiration sometimes comes at the strangest times. She took my clothing, I’ll take hers. In Kelly’s bottom dresser drawer, she keeps a gray sweatshirt, plain and way oversized for her. I use the scissors from her sewing kit to cut off all the bands, around the arms, around the bottom, and finally around the collar. Unfortunately, I cut too much from the collar and it drapes off my shoulder. So I steal one of her tank tops, my boobs stretching the fabric beyond what she’d be able to wear again, and then slide back into the sweatshirt. It’s definitely too big. Her belt collection works just fine. I laugh at her as I wrap the thin black belt twice around my waist loosely, letting it drape against my hips. She normally wraps it four times. Of course I slip back into the gladiator booties, which she’d taken back. They’re in her closet. Eight minutes down. Running out of time for primping, I quickly blow out my hair with a simple round brush and dab on a bit of blush, eyeliner, mascara, and lip gloss. Done. Time is up.

Cell phone.

Backpack.

Car keys.

Coat.

Even with no heat inside, it still feels warmer than the blast of super cooled air hitting my face when I open the door. Ben is already walking halfway up our sidewalk, looking ten kinds of worried. Four remaining steps between us, and I melt against him, reveling for a moment in the comfort just him being here brings me.

Chapter 20

Ben

The words won’t come just yet, and I won’t force them. Taking her hand, we walk back to my Jeep where I open the door for her before climbing back inside myself. It’s damn cold out. I have the heat turned all the way up. I back up out of the parking space while clicking in my seatbelt. Elle’s hands rest on her lap. That won’t do, so I lace our fingers together, bringing them over to mine, driving us to the campus.

Five minutes later and we’re turning into the lot in front of the social science building. She still hasn’t explained what that phone call was about, so I’m not about to drop her off yet. I wish we could go back to Monday. That was a perfect day, skipping. Cuddling under the quilt. She doesn’t seem surprised that I’m not dropping her off anyway, finding a spot halfway back in the parking lot to give us a little privacy.

“Before you ask, we need to talk.”

“I know.”

“What happened, Brontë? You scared the crap out of me.”

“Kelly. She sort of freaked out on me because you and I are dating. She knew how I felt about you, she knew it. But invited you to Chicago anyway. For
her
. She thought you two would hook up. But then she saw the kissing on YouTube. She called you a chubby chaser, Ben. People think you’re a chubby chaser.”

“What the hell? I don’t care what other people think of me. I care what you think of me. And what you think of you. Baby, you are
not
chubby. You curve in all the right places. Shit, the way that ass rubbed up against me.” Yes, we’re having a serious conversation, but thinking of those curves rubbed up against me, damn. The smile finds its way to my lips without me meaning it to. Elle. The messed up phone call. Focus, Ben. Focus.

“She stole all my clothing. Except for a couple things in my weekend bag. And then Cricket called.” Cricket. My shoulders slump for her, for her pain, but I stay silent. Because really, what could I say? “Why doesn’t she love me, Ben? I’m her daughter. She’s supposed to love me.”

“I don’t know. I wish, god I wish I could take the pain for you.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“You and me, we don’t make sense. You are so damn gorgeous, and Kelly, she’s drop-dead beautiful. Me, I’m so far from beautiful. I’m the…the other side of beautiful.”

“Not true. And it’s never been true. Those are Cricket’s words. Kelly and I would kill each other, you know it. Anyway, I don’t like how much she drinks. I’m not a fan of people losing control.”

“But—”

“When am I finally going to get through to you? There
are
no buts. None. Your beauty has always surpassed Kelly’s, and you have a heart she could never hope to have.”

She collapses back in the seat, defeated. How is it that she still doesn’t understand? I’m trying so hard, but this stuff with Cricket is really stretching the edges of my competency. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know the first god damn thing about relationships. Yet here I am trying to navigate us around such a major hurdle. I haven’t dealt with my own parents in years, so who am I to be dispensing advice to my girl about hers? My parents haven’t been contacting me every other day, either.

Shit.
“I’m not telling you what to do, and I really have no right to ask, but I’m asking anyway.” I pause, taking in a long breath, then letting it go slowly. Her ritual. She recognizes it, I know she does. “Please don’t talk to Cricket anymore.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Brontë, it always is with blood family. But you deserve more. And Kelly, I’m done with her. You come stay with Col and me. My king size bed has a side with your name on it.”

“You want me to stay with you?”

“I do.”

“But what about Collin?”

“He’ll be fine with it. He’s crazy about you.”

To be honest, I really didn’t think that was going to work. At least not without some major convincing on my part. Getting her to move in with me, she must really be done with Kelly. I’d like to say it’s all just for her, because she needs a stable environment with people who care for her. But she felt so good lying in my arms. I’m selfish. I want her in my bed for me too. So yeah, she totally surprises me when she answers, “
Okay
.”

With her okay we are totally done talking. Her happiness is all I need to see, all I want to see—that glint of happiness again when she looks at me like I’m her savior. I lean over to kiss the corner of her mouth, then lean back to look at her, and there it is. And so goes another piece of my heart, even if she doesn’t know it. I told her I was willing to lose my heart to her. Guess I’m all in.

“Thank you…” she breathes out, kissing my bottom lip. And then she moves to the top. “For saving me.”

She kneads those delicate hands through my hair, and I tilt my head back to taste her mouth full on. The driver’s side seat slides back as I lift her over the Wrangler’s gear shifter to straddle my lap. The kisses intensify. They really intensify. I move one hand to stroke her neck while one of hers brushes the stubble along my cheek from not having time to shave when I woke up. Her other hand dips inside the waist of my jeans, eliciting a low groan, the sound of which urges her hips to grind slowly against me. My thickness, although only semi-hard at the moment, gets harder with every grind through my jeans. As crazy as she’s driving me, I’m giving it right back, holding her down, rubbing against her most sensitive areas. Elle presses her forehead against my neck, holding on tightly. And I’m willing her to feel what I do, my heart, and
not
the muscle. Bringing both my hands to her face, I tilt her chin up to look me in the eyes. “Baby, don’t just listen, but hear me. You have to hear me.” She nods. “Kelly has nothing on you, and damn it, I mean it,
nothing
on you.”

“Too hard,” she says. “It’s too hard to hear those words and look at you.” And she tries to break the firm hold I have on her cheeks. An impossible task, my Brontë averts her eyes instead.

“Elle Dinninger, look at me.” She actually does. I don’t know why she does, maybe the command in my voice, maybe curiosity to hear what I have to say, or maybe, maybe she just wants to believe in someone’s belief in her. That she has worth. That the world is a better place having her in it. Because she has worth. She has so much fucking worth that she doesn’t even realize.

“I know it’s hard for you when Cricket or Callum or Kelly run you down. It’s always easier to believe the bad. But they’re just a few miserable people.
Three people
. Beautiful, no matter the definition, doesn’t come close to describing you. I don’t think the word has been imagined yet.”

“I don’t deserve you, you know.”

“Brontë, you don’t know what you deserve, but I guaran-fucking-tee it’s more than this. And one day you’re going to believe it.”