Dare Me Dirty (Her Pretty Little Revenge)

Calliope "We're over." Blake says it like it costs him nothing. Like one year means nothing. He won't even look at me when he says it — eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder, jaw tight, fingers drumming against the steering wheel like he has somewhere better to be. I stare at him. "What?" He finally glances at me, and there's something in his expression I don't recognize. Something sharp and irritated and — guilty. But I'm too blindsided to pull it apart right now. "You heard me, Carly." I did. I just don't understand it. Three hours ago he was texting me goodnight emojis. Now he's sitting in his car outside the rink looking at me like I'm an inconvenience he's finally decided to deal with. "Did I—" I stop. Swallow. "Is this because I said no? Last week, when you wanted to—" "Don't." His voice cuts sharp. A muscle feathers in his jaw. "Don't make this about that." But the way his expression closes off tells me everything. His pride is wounded. I said no and somewhere in that pretty, golden head of his, he decided I wasn't worth the patience. A month ago I would've apologized. I would've softened my voice and touched his arm and made myself smaller to fit whatever shape he needed me to be. I don't do that now. "Then what is it about?" I ask, keeping my voice level. Calm. "Because you don't just end a year without a reason, Blake." He laughs — short and humorless — and that's when I feel the first flicker of something hot behind my ribs. "You want a reason? Fine." He turns to face me fully now, and there's no guilt left in his expression. Just that easy, careless cruelty that popular boys wear like a second skin. "You're boring, Carly. You've always been boring. You don't fit. You never really did." I grip my hands together in my lap. "I don't fit," I repeat slowly. "You're not on my level." He shrugs. Actual shrugs. "I should've been honest about that a long time ago." Something in my chest cracks — not from heartbreak. From disbelief. This is a year. A year of his hoodies and his late night calls and his I really like you Carly's and he's sitting here telling me I was never on his level like it's the most obvious thing in the world. I open my mouth. He opens his door. The conversation is apparently over. I get out because I'm not sitting in his car alone like some dismissed afterthought. My sneakers hit the pavement and the cold air slaps me in the face and I'm two seconds from saying something I actually mean when I hear footsteps. "Soph?" She's walking toward us across the parking lot, blonde hair catching the light, cheer bag slung over her shoulder. My best friend. The one person who's been in my corner since freshman year. I almost sag with relief. "Oh thank god," I breathe. "Blake is being insane right now, I need you to—" She doesn't stop walking toward me. She walks past me. And then she kisses him. Not a peck. Not an accident. She rises onto her toes and kisses Blake Turner like she's done it a hundred times before — one hand curling into his jersey, his arm wrapping around her waist like it belongs there. Like it's practiced. The pieces don't fall slowly. They crash. All at once, everything rearranges. Every time Sophie cancelled plans. Every time Blake seemed distracted. Every time I felt like I was reaching for something that kept sliding just out of frame. I hear my own voice like it's coming from somewhere far away. "When did this start?" Blake pulls back from Sophie. Has the nerve to look almost uncomfortable. "About a month ago." A month. A month. I look at Sophie. My best friend. The girl who held my hand through every hard thing, who knew every secret, who told me I deserved the world. "How could you—" "Oh, relax." She says it easily. Bored, almost. She doesn't even have the decency to look sorry. "Come on, Carly. Look at him." She gestures to Blake like he's a display piece. "He's the star player of the Ice Reapers. He's Blake Turner. And you're—" her eyes drift over me, slow and deliberate, "—you. What exactly made you think you were built for this world?" My throat tightens. "You're my best friend." "I'm the cheer captain." She tilts her head. "There's a difference." The hot thing behind my ribs spreads. Fills my chest. Climbs up my throat. "I trusted you," I say. "Both of you. For a year I—" "Nobody asked you to." Sophie sighs like this conversation is beneath her. Like I am. She takes a step toward me and pokes my shoulder — one finger, light and pointed, like she's testing to see if I'm real. "You're upset. I get it. But at the end of the day?" She leans in slightly. "There's nothing you can do about it. You're irrelevant, Carly. You always have been." I look down at her finger still hovering near my shoulder. Then I smack her hand away. The sound cuts through the parking lot like a crack of ice. Sophie blinks. Actually blinks — like she didn't think I had it in me. Blake steps forward. "What the f—" "Don't." My voice doesn't shake. I don't know where that comes from but I hold onto it with everything I have. My eyes find his and I let him see all of it — the fury, the hurt, the part of me that has already decided something. "Both of you. I'm going to make you regret this." Sophie stares at me for a long moment. Then she laughs. It's light and pretty and completely dismissive, the way only girls like her can manage. "Go ahead." She smiles, slow and satisfied, and her voice drops to something almost gentle when she says it. "I dare you."