WHY DO YOU LOVE ME.
When Reina accepted the role of maid-of-honor
for her best friend's wedding, she was thinking
of one thing; her best friend's happiness.
But in the midst of planning the best night of her friend's life, she runs into a problem...
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.·゜゜· ·゜゜·．
REINA'S POV
I exhale a heavy breath as I lift up the paint can, tilting it slightly until the light purple color I chose began to spill out onto the tray. The music is quiet enough that I can still hear the sounds of nature from the opened window, but loud enough that I can still hear it over my own thoughts. Still quiet enough that I heard the doorbell loud and clear, the sound making me huff. Slowly, I turn the paint can upwards, lowering it to the cloth-covered ground with great difficulty.
The doorbell sounds again when I'm halfway down the stairs, successfully irritating me. I yank the door open with much more force than necessary, prepared to mouth off to whatever tyrant is at my door, but the words die on my tongue as I'm pushed aside and the person steps into my home. My brows furrow as Matthew waltzes in like I invited him in, and I slowly shut the front door behind him. "Uh, hi?"
"Why aren't you at Stef's?" He asks me, instead of greeting me. I don't respond, which seems to frustrate him. "You were supposed to stay at Stef's."
I frown. "I did stay there."
"Stef said she woke up and you were gone."
"Yeah, I didn't wanna overstay my welcome," I mumble, crossing my arms over my chest.
Matthew doesn't buy my excuse like I was hoping. "Bullshit." Then his eyes shift downwards, apparently just noticing my attire for the first time. If he was still wondering about why I left so early, the old t-shirt and leggings I'm wearing that are speckled with paint answer the question easily. Then his head turns, and I realize the music is still playing in the room. My frown deepens when Matthew begins to walk up the stairs without a word, and I'm left to scramble behind him as his steps are twice as big as mine. "You're painting," he finally concludes, once he's standing in the doorway of the room.
"Gee, nothing gets past you," I mutter sarcastically, brushing past him to go into the room. "You're interrupting, by the way."
He doesn't seem bothered by my accusation, brushing it off for another question. "Why are you painting?"
I roll my eyes, turning to him with my hands on my hips. "Why do you care?" He doesn't respond. "We aren't friends, Matthew, in case you forgot that. Which, I think you have, considering this is the second day in a row you've shown up at my house unannounced." I turn away from him and pick up the roller before he could see the embarrassed flush that's settling on my cheeks.
Yesterday was not a good night for me, and the last person I wanted to be there to witness it was Matthew. It turned out okay, the car ride from my house to Stef's short and quiet, our only real interaction after he held me together being a soft nod when Stef wrapped me in her arms and thanked him. Other than that, I tried not to look at him the few minutes he spent in the house with us. There's already this shame I feel for breaking down in the first place, because feelings are something that isn't typically supposed to be expressed in such an extreme sense, or so I've been taught. But add the one man who goes out of his way to push your buttons into the mix, it put me in a position with such vulnerability that it made me want to cry about it all over again.
