Fragile Little Things ✓

08 use

I KEEP MYSELF BUSY by filling in the blanks in my schedule with visits to the gym. And I don’t think about my stupid ex-boyfriend, or my overbearing manager, or even college. I’m wearing a black pair of gym tights that make my butt look good, and a matching sports bra that makes my boobs look good too, and with my workout playlist, I feel like the baddest bitch in the city.

And I’m not letting anything get me down anymore.

When I walk back to the apartment, a cool breeze settles on my skin, clinging to the fine layer of sweat on my skin. Mae’s coming over in a few hours so we can get ready for the party at College House. When I reach the apartment, I try not to spend too much time in the shower, even when the tepid heat of the water sinks into my muscle like honey, tempting me to.

I step out the shower, wrapping my towel around my body. Since I washed my hair, I have the gargantuan task of having to go through my haircare. My mom’s black, and my dad white. My hair’s a mixture of their texture—and the dark brown color from my dad. It isn’t curly in a wavy, low-maintenance kind of way. If I use a hairdryer, I become pre-makeover Mia Thermopolis.

I’m not going to straighten it, because doing that ruins the curls over the long term. And I like the curls. I have to dry it with an old t-shirt, treat it with argan oil, then use a wide tooth comb to comb through the knots. By the time I’m done, my hair has volume sent from heaven itself, but Mae’s knocking at the door and I’m still only in a towel.

I slide on a pair of slippers and trudge to the door, opening it. Mae walks in with a bright smile, and as always, her raven black hair is perfectly straight. She smells like watermelon lip-gloss. When she catches sight of me, her eyes crinkle a little. “You hair looks good. And you’re radiating this kinda bad bitch energy. Love that for you.”

I glaze over her compliment with a smile. “You’re already ready?”

“No.” She scoffs, tapping the duffel at her side twice. “You really think I’m going to wear this?”

Closing the door behind her as she walks in, I stare down at her cute outfit: shorts and an oversized pastel pink sweatshirt with a strawberry patch. “It looks cute.”

“Cute is not bangable,” she says, “I’m getting railed tonight. I’m claiming it right now.”

Mae’s all about claiming and manifestation and energy. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s been obsessed with zodiac signs and personality tests and tarot readings. Me? I wouldn’t even know that I was a Virgo if it wasn’t for her. Every time she makes me read my horoscope; I feel like the universe is attacking me personally.

“What’re you wearing?” I ask her.

“Oh.” She lifts a finger excitedly, telling me to wait a second before she places her duffel on the arm of our couch and pulls back the zipper, digging in to find a skimpy piece of black material that she stretches out to show me.

I smile. “Isn’t that like the fifth black tube top you own?”

She makes a face. “No. This one’s different, look.” She makes a theatrical show of how hard it is to stretch the fabric. “It’s super elastic. That way, if I die and they take a picture, there won’t be a nip slip situation going on.”

The corners of my mouth lift. “You’re more worried about a nip slip than dying?”

“It’s all about consent, baby,” she says, “What are you wearing?”

“Jeans, and…” I pause, turning as I walk to my room, plucking the hanger with my top on it as I show it to her.

She squeals. “What the hell? That’s so pretty. Your boobs are gonna look so good.” The top is a white lace bustier, and when I saw it through the glass door, I knew it would bleed my pockets dry, but I wanted it anyway. “You never wore stuff like this with—” Mae pauses as she catches herself. Her gaze is self-reprimanding and regretful.