2016 WATTY AWARD WINNING CHEATER, FAKER, TROUBLEMAKER SEQUEL
Written by Jenny Rosen & Kristen Maglonzo
For rehabilitated bad boy, Elias King, falling in love again means losing everything--including his life.
When a ghost from his past tears him aw...
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Alex
So, I think it's fair to say that after having dealt with the kind of break-up/separation/worst departure of my life that Elias put me through last year, that I'm not a huge fan of him disappearing at random. It's not that I don't trust him to come back, it's just some part of me--
--doesn't trust him to come back.
And I know that's ridiculous, and that I'm ridiculous, and that being this paranoid after so long is borderline crazy. But watching Elias leave still bothers me. Especially after kisses like that.
I mean honestly, what kind of guy shows up after class with perfectly wind-swept hair dangling all in his face, sweat beads glistening on his skin, and an adorably nervous smile on his lips? Most people who manage to survive a typical day at UCLA come back to their dorms looking like some part of their life force has been drained from them. Or maybe that's just me, but whatever, you get the point.
Normal people do not look like Elias does when he's tired, anxious, and apparently somewhat frisky.
I feel like if I walked up to his door stuck in a combination of all of those emotional states I'd look like I was having a stroke--(the way I probably do right now).
I scuttle into my mess of an excuse for a bathroom and my mirror confirms my worse fears. I look like a Gorgon.
Medusa could easily outdo me on Instagram in the like department and yet somehow, my boyfriend still wants me to "wear something sexy" to our oh-so-mysterious date night. The problem with having to wear something sexy is that wearing a cute dress, or skirt, or whatever article of clothing "sexy" is supposed to imply, is not enough.
I have to fix the tiredness on my face by turning to my arch-nemesis--otherwise known as make-up.
I suck at it. That is absolutely no secret. Elias very fondly refers to my attempts at smoky-eye as me looking like I narrowly escaped a coal mine with my life, or like I got punched in the face. Mascara and I have an abusive relationship. It clumps together, rips out my eyelashes, and burns if I wear it for too long. And foundation essentially makes me look like I'm the piece de resistance on Cake Boss.
Catch my drift?
Make up is complicated. So I do what any cosmetically-challenged girl would do in my situation, I reach for my cheap and easy-to-use concealer stick--drag it under my eyes, mask the beginnings of two pimples on my face, and call it a night.
I check out my slightly improved reflection in the mirror and decide to throw in a little reddish-pink lip stain and some blush so Elias doesn't confuse his date for the undead.
