Page 30 of Darling Venom
“Yeah, sorry. I’m absolutely fine.”
age eighteen
“Sometimes I wish you were never born. Does that make me a bad person?”
Leah finally said it.
Well, whispered it.
It came out of her mouth in a rush. Just as I scooped my keys from the bowl by the door, about to go to my last meeting with Kellan.
Technically, he’d canceled. But I still hoped he might show. I knew I would.
I had to.
I twisted my head. Leah stood before the darkened hallway mirror, staring at her face. Guilt was a monster, clawing at my skin.
Before The Night Of, Leah had been the pretty one. Her huge, vibrant eyes a few shades darker than my green ones and raven hair gave her a striking look guys fawned over.
I stopped, but I didn’t turn to her. “You think I don’t know that? I live with that knowledge every single day.”
A few months ago, Leah had finished studying for her aesthetician diploma and started working sane hours. I’d thought it would improve her mood, but it’d only made things worse.
Now, once-beautiful Leah was the freak with the long sleeves, who had to cake on makeup each time she left the house.
“Phil called me today.”
We shifted to face each other at the same time. Her, from the mirror; me, from the door.
Phil and Leah had broken up shortly after the fire. It was connected to what had happened.
When he finally left, the last thing I heard her scream at him was, “No one asked you to touch me. No one asked you to stay. Don’t feel guilty because you want to leave me. Feel guilty b
ecause you’re shallow enough to be turned off by scar tissue. Now get out!”
He stormed out, pushing me when he found me eavesdropping in the hallway. “Catch you later, Plan C.”
I was no longer next in line. I was the bottom of the barrel, in case he couldn’t find a replacement for my sister.
I shook my head, ridding myself of the memory. “What did he want?”
“Just to check in. He’s a banker now. Morgan Stanley.”
I pretended to gag.
I had nothing against banks. Or money. But I had a boatload against Phil.
She continued, ignoring my reaction. “He’s dating Natalie Moseley. It’s serious. Two years I gave this man.”
“Don’t say that.”
I thumped the back of my head against the door, closing my eyes.
I hated that phrase. It implied women sat around and waited for men to pop the question while wasting their fertile years. A relationship version of Russian roulette.
“You’ve given each other two years,” I added. “Whatever time you lost—or gained—he did, too.”
“Well, he’s not on the losing end anymore.”
