Roofers.

33. Breaking bottles.

Scarlett POV.

It was always so easy to tell when Candy had been in a fight with Dante. Her eyes always seemed too big for her face. They'd go red from lack of sleep and sunken because she often found eating difficult when they argued. She wore outfits that didn't make sense, like right now she wore Jordans on one foot and combat boots on the other. An old giraffe onesie with a pair of black tights over it. She wore a set of earmuffs, even though winter was definitely nowhere to be seen. See, when she fought with Dante, she made sure we all knew it just by looking at her. She'd throw away her fashion sense, dwell in the mess she'd made herself, swim in a pity pool of tears.

37 missed calls.

83 unread messages.

15 voice mails.

Candy had been trying to get ahold of me for the past 2 days and I guess now I knew why. We hadn't been talking. At all. Since my depressive episode, I just didn't have it in me to call again or to answer. I wasn't about to bother her with my mental health again and I definitely wasn't about to force my way into her schedule. So I dealt with myself and left her far from it. I hadn't expected her to come running at my single beck and call like some sort of lost puppy.  At the time I just had to know if someone was there for me. And she wasn't. It was quite simple really.

I shouldn't have been mad at her. I was being petty. How was she supposed to know what was going on, anyway? It's not like she could read my mind. People have lives that have absolutely nothing to do with me; people have errands to run, careers to pursue — relationships to maintain. I knew I couldn't be a priority all the time, but I wondered if two minutes was too much to ask for. Had the fast highschool life taken that from us too? I knew I was being irrational. But that didn't make it sting any less.

So I guess you could only imagine the shock when I heard her practically abusing my front door in the middle of the day. Clad in her monstrosity of an outfit and black streams of mascara falling from her cheeks by the bucket load. I could practically see the smoke billowing from her ears.

"What are you doing here?" I asked her, pretending to be oblivious to her anger. My voice hadn't been used for a while, it had morphed into some kind of hoarse; raspy abomination.

"Really! That's all you can fucking say to me! I've been calling you for two days and you're just — " She paused mid-rant to breathe or count or whatever she did to calm her down. Her fingers massaged her temples as she tried to — in her own words — "slow the fuck down before she dragged a bitch by the weave". She closed her eyes, fanning her face with her manicured hands to stop a river of tears from flowing onto her cheeks again.

"I was worried about you." She eventually said, her voice barely audible.

"Really?" I scoffed. "Well, I'm fine, you can go now."

I doubted I'd crossed her mind until she'd fought with Dante. I was her go-to gal whenever something came up between them. Whenever anything happened she'd call me and rant for hours until they eventually made up. That was my job. I was her therapist when she needed one. Her distraction when she couldn't stand her life at home. 

"What's going on with you?" She asked me.

"Nothing. Leave." I didn't want to speak to her. All I wanted to do was to go back into my room, crawl into my bed and cease to exist for perhaps a day longer. I wanted to close my eyes and open them after days had wandered by. I wanted to spend the rest of my days eating junk and being unbothered by the fact that I couldn't remember when I'd last showered. 

Candy didn't seem to care though. She was more concerned over the fact that I hadn't offered to hear her rant this time.

"You aren't acting like its nothing." She said.