Klara
The storm had passed by morning, leaving behind a sky the color of dirty dishwater and a town slicked in a deceptive, sparkling frost.
I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, staring at my reflection, feeling like an imposter in my own skin. My lips were slightly swollen, a faint pink blush still lingering on the skin of my neck where Ryan’s jaw had rubbed against mine in the dark. I frantically applied a layer of concealer, blending it until the physical evidence of last night disappeared, but the mental marks were indelible.
I was terrified.
The euphoria of the library had completely evaporated, replaced by a cold, leaden dread in the pit of my stomach. What had we done? He was Ryan Fitzgerald. He had a girlfriend. He had a championship to win tomorrow night. He had a life wher
