The onions are popping, the oil splattering. I work to carefully reach around it so as to not get burned again, and shove the pan to the back burner with fresh tears in my eyes—these from defeat.

I head to the bathroom to find the brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide and cringe when I remove the stained paper towels. It hurts more to see the cut then to actually experience it. I douse my palm, ignoring the stinging sensation as I grab a clean washcloth to hold against it.

The kitchen is a mess. My dessert—a no-bake cheesecake—looks lumpy but still edible, and slightly appealing, even. After all, it’s in a graham cracker pie crust. I release a deep sigh, focusing to hold on to this silver lining as I resolve to order a pizza. Wine, pizza, and cheesecake—we can make this work out to be something really great.

The pizza restaurant explains their specials to me, answering several questions that I knowingly ask on my mother’s behalf before choosing one that I know she’ll enjoy.

I’m almost grateful my palm is hurt, preventing me from working. If it weren’t, I would be sitting at my easel feeling obligated and compelled to work on my portfolio with nothing but frustration and anger swirling for how badly things have gone and how uninspired I feel to draw anything other than him.

I flip on the TV and distract myself with two sitcoms before the doorbell rings and a smile covers my face.

“WHY DOES it smell like pizza?”

I reluctantly open my eyes and discover a headache settling deep in my temples, making the temptation to close them again unbearably tempting. Kenzie is the last person I want to see most days, but especially tonight.

“Did you make a cheesecake?”

“Just throw it away,” I grumble.

“Where’s your mom?”

“Good question.”

“WHAT HAPPENED to your hand?”

“Why are you wearing plaid again?”

King’s eyes move to his shirt, and he shakes his head with annoyance before looking back at me. “What happened?”

“I cut it.”

“Obviously. With what? A machete?”

“A knife that was in our sink. I didn’t see it because I was trying to make the burning stop.”

“The burning?” His eyebrows shoot up under his baseball hat, his eyes reflecting lighter shades of brown with the yellow and black plaid shirt I’d like to stain with bleach in an attempt to get it out of his short rotation.

A smirk curves my lips as I curl my fingers into a fist and lift my bandaged middle finger. He doesn’t react like I had been expecting, making the act far less satisfying. Instead, he takes my hand in his and makes quick work of peeling the bandage off while I list off several objections. There’s a large blister along the pad of my middle finger that still feels like the epicenter of hell.

“You need to put something on it that isn’t going to stick. This stuff will make it hurt worse.”

“I know, but it’s all we had and I don’t want it to pop. With my luck it will become infected and I won’t be able to work for a month.”

He keeps hold of my hand, rotating it from side to side to look closely at the swollen area that seems darker than appropriate against my pasty skin tone. “This is going to take a couple of weeks.” I don’t voice that I already know this. There’s a scar across my shin that is a lasting memory of just how long burns take to heal. “We’ve got some dressing that will be better than this shit.” King crumples my old bandage in his palm and lifts his chin to gesture toward the hallway.

He follows me down the hall while a hundred different ways to tell him I can take care of this on my own cross my mind. I should, but a sadistic part of me wants to see what he’s going to do. Being around King is like having a tooth cavity; you keep biting down on the area to see if it still hurts even though you already know it will. I’m fairly certain they consider this behavior a symptom of insanity.

King pulls open the medicine cabinet and rifles around for several seconds before pulling out a few items. He washes his hands methodically and then draws out a clean towel from under the vanity. I watch as he prepares the bandage by covering it with an ointment, and then he instructs me to thoroughly wash the area. After drying my hand, I carefully extend it palm up, spreading my fingers wide so as to create enough space to wrap the tape.

“I thought you remembered how much you liked saying ‘fuck me’ that you were going to do it again.”

“I was just showing you my burn like you asked.”

He’s still holding the bandage a few inches from my hand, but he looks up at me instead of my wound. His eyes are shadowed by the bill of his hat, but it’s still apparent they’re wide with sarcasm. “I remember you saying it plenty of times when we—”

I clear my throat loudly, drowning his words, and reach for the bandage that he pulls back as if anticipating my move. “I can take care of this, thanks.”

“I’m pretty sure you enjoyed me taking care you that night.”

“What in the hell is wrong with you?” My tone and eyes are lowered with a fierce anger that has me ready to quit my job so I never have to see him again, and tempted to bite down to see if it will still hurt. “I am not some cheap whore that finds your disgusting jokes humorous. Everyone else might think that because of who you are, you’re entitled to say crap like that, but you aren’t. That night meant nothing. I’ve been over it and you for a long time. Now you need to get over yourself.” I reach forward and rip the bandage from his stilled hand and stalk out of the room, my heart beating so fast and powerfully I can feel it in my throat.

My hands feel unsteady as I wrap the dressing around my finger while my words run on replay through my head. I’m not afraid of him firing me, I’m not afraid of hurting his feelings, but for some ridiculous and inexplicable reason, I feel guilty for lying.

He really must be driving me to insanity.

“WHY ARE you fidgeting again?” Allie’s scolding is in the form of a whisper but still reaches my ears as a yell because I know by the sharp look in her eye that she’s ready to stab me with a pin if I don’t stop.

“Sorry,” I whisper. I work to ignore an itch on the back of my neck and another on my shoulder. As I think about how much I hate standing still and why I didn’t see King at all today though he always works in the home office on Fridays, I feel several more tickles across my skin that arise because I know I can’t move.

My eyes scan over the large space that we’re filling. There are at least two hundred other students in here, each with a model who, like me, is standing atop a crate, making a select few of us even more uncomfortably tall. Several people look perfectly relaxed as they stand completely still, their shoulders back and chins raised as though they’re already on stage. My eyes trace over each of them, noticing their poise, boldness, and beauty.

“She’s really pretty.”

Allie’s looks up at me with minimal interest. “Who?”

“The girl over there with the dark blond hair.” I nod in the direction of where she’s standing.

“You’re an artist, Lo. She’s definitely pretty, but her confidence is what makes her stand out so much.”

Allie’s comment makes me stare longer at the girl, noticing her eyes are a little too close together, and her forehead too short to be what is believed to be the definition of attractive. It brings me to hate those ignorant facts even more because she is beautiful, and I’m grateful she seems to believe so without meeting the dictated standards.

“Lo,” Allie hisses in warning, making my hand drop from where it’s rubbing across my mostly bare thigh.