Charming My Best Friend (Fated #2) Read Online Free PDF Page B

did it because I could.”
    I felt a drop of spit land on my cheek.
    “I did it because you’re too nice.”
    I wiped the spit away.
    “Because you’re too trusting, Aiden.”
    I clenched my fists.
    “You made it so easy to cheat. Too easy.”
    I pursed my lips.
    “You might think you’re rid of me, but I won’t be the last girl
that cheats on you. Mark my words.” She stormed out into the hallway and rolled
her suitcase down the hall.
    I followed behind her, grabbing a hanger out of the laundry
closet on the way by.
    “Goodbye, Aiden,” she said, throwing the front door open.
    “You forgot something, Chelse,” I said, holding up her black bra
and panties.
    She snatched them out of my hand.
    “I’m sure you’ll be needing those,” I said.
    And then I slammed the door in her face.
     

Chapter 7: Lucy
     
     
    I left a trail of wet footprints as I walked down the hall towards
my room.
    “I think I heard your phone ring while you were in the shower,”
Fiona said as I squeaked by her door.
    “Thanks,” I said, shutting myself in my room. I unplugged my
phone from where it was charging on my dresser. The missed call was from Aiden,
but he hadn’t left a message.
    I looked up from the phone and into the mirror, staring at the
drops of water dripping from the ends of my hair to the top of the towel that
was wrapped around me. Then I held my arm out. The straight scars below the
inside of my elbow were red from the heat of the shower and felt fresher today
because I’d had a cutting dream.
    Even though six years had passed since I’d drawn my own blood, I
still dreamt about it. They weren’t the kind of dreams where I could watch from
outside myself either. Instead, they were vivid and full of palpable stress.
    When I was in them, I could feel the anxiety of being desperate
to find a safe place to cut, the anticipation of pressing the razor into my
flesh, and the relief that came when I dragged it against my skin and started
to bleed.
    Then I would wake up, as if seeing my own blood was the proof I
needed to know that I was alive and could still feel something. It had been
much the same when I started cutting myself in the first place.
    It was around the time my Mom died. I think the combination of
how curious I was about death and pain mixed with the fact that I didn’t have
the tools I needed to cope with my feelings is what drove me to it.
    Eventually, I realized that I was looking forward to cutting
more than anything else, and I grew more afraid of having to do it forever than
I was of trying to stop.
    But I still had to hide it.  
    After all, it wasn’t a cry for help. It was a coping mechanism, albeit
a fucked up one. I never had any intention of actually killing myself. If
anything, I wanted to feel something, not create the absence of feeling.
    There was only one time I ever crossed the line and over did it.
I knew when I started to feel lightheaded that I was in trouble, and I woke up
my Dad so he could drunk drive me to the hospital.
    I told him I got snagged hopping a barbed wire fence when my
friends and I were running from the cops after drinking on the beach that night.
It was an elaborate, patchy lie, but he was in no position to father me at the
time. In fact, he was drinking so much then that Alex and I are lucky we didn’t
lose him, too.
    But he pulled it together, and so did I.
    I don’t think he ever said anything to anyone about what
happened- me included- except for that night when I heard him tell the doctors
where to go when they suggested I might’ve done it on purpose.
    Sometimes I wished I’d cut myself in a different place, one that
was less awkward to hide, but I wasn’t even sure where that would be. Even if
I’d cut my thigh instead, I’d still have to pretend I didn’t like to swim or
get my hair wet or that I was terrified of the sun, which was believable enough
because of my porcelain skin.
    Someday, though, I hoped to have the kind of intimacy with
someone that