Page 27 of Beautiful Small Things

I watched him bring random women to celebratory events and parties, knowing he’d show them a good time and never see them again. I heard him talk about his life and everything he was planning, knowing I’d never be more than a spectator.

Since I relegated myself to being a spectator in Marcus’s life, I refused to be a spectator in my own. I wasn’t going to let one-sided love ruin my teenage years. I danced. I dated. I lived my life experiencing the highs and lows of any teenage girl.

In a way, I followed his lead. I was unapologetically myself, more than ever. I’d always spoken my mind. But, like many young women, I cared too much about other people’s thoughts. My image was too important to me.

Observing the way Marcus lived helped me to become stronger and more confident. I called it “The Marcus Sinclair Effect.” It was possibly the only positive thing that occurred from my interactions with the man.

I may have acted indifferent, but deep down, I longed for a meaningful connection with him. Unrequited love, especially to a young woman, feels like someone stabbing you in the heart with a dull spoon. The way he treated me like a little sister made me want to gouge his eyes out with said spoon. I had no outlet for my anger, so I was short with him, picking fights and covering up my true feelings with false bravado and a frigid exterior.

And we fought. Almost every chance we got. If he said “up,” I said “down.” If he said “night,” I said “day.” All in an attempt to cover up my feelings. He thought it was hilarious. It went on for years.

I continued to dream of the moment Marcus’s eyes would light up in recognition that I had grown into a woman. A woman who desperately wanted him. Not long after turning eighteen, I decided I was done waiting. I tried to force it and believe me, it was nothing like I planned.

I can’t help the laugh that escapes me as I think about that day. It was the most mortifying experience I’d ever had up to that point. Worse than the Christmas fiasco.

Colby and Callan had organized one of their little camping trips. They invited both of our families, but Callan’s parents aren’t exactly the camping type and mine couldn’t go.

So it was just the four of us. I was finally eighteen. Officially an adult woman.

I hadn’t seen Marcus in many months. Not a long time, by any stretch of the imagination, but long enough when you’re young and your hormones are molding your body into an ever-changing landscape.

I had a plan. I had a new bikini and a plan. I was waxed to high heaven. My entire body was soft and hairless, except for a perfect triangle between my legs. I got highlights in my hair to frame my girlish features into sharper, more womanly ones. I had a manicure and pedicure. I bleached my teeth. I wasn’t on my period. It was going to be perfect. I would come out in all of my shorn glory and finally show this man that I pined for what he was missing.

Like any good plan, it can only blow up in your face. And it blew up spectacularly.

James - Age 18

Callan, Colby, and Marcus lived together in the house Marcus’s parents had bought. They decided to get everything ready and swing by to pick me up.

They arrived at my apartment early while I was still getting ready. I politely asked everyone to wait for a few minutes. That was the beginning of the end.

The first problem was the humidity. We were experiencing far more humidity than normal, and my bathroom felt like Hades Haven. So I did what any girl would do. I took off my bathrobe and began to blow dry my hair naked.

I heard mumbling in the living room, and I was stressed to hurry up, but I did my best to tame the anxiety.

With butterflies in my stomach and heat protectant in my hair, I started to blow dry my hair. That went fine. Things did not go south with the actual blow drying.

I was done drying my hair when I unplugged the dryer. Then I started wrapping the cord around the blowdryer to put it in the drawer. I’d done it a million times before without any problems.

Apparently, I was playing it fast and loose with the actual wrapping of the cord, and that’s when it happened.

The cord flew around its concentric arc, and the plug tagged me in the right nipple hard. Being completely naked, it stung like a son of a bitch. If I didn’t know better, I would have assumed that a python had slithered up my body and bitten my nipple. I am not being dramatic. It hurt that badly.

I vaguely remember yelling something like, “Holy fucking shit balls,” just as I dropped the fiery hair tool and grabbed my boob with my hand on instinct, and doubled over. I’m not entirely sure what that was supposed to accomplish, but I’ll tell you what it did accomplish.

When I bent over, I hit my head on the counter. Immediately I felt dizzy as warm blood poured out of the cut on my head. Deep crimson flowed from the gash on my temple in a steady pour, causing me to crumple to the ground like accordion bellows collapsing.

So I’m laying on the ground, in the fetal position, whimpering in pain and bleeding out on the bathroom floor. OK, not really. But my head wound was bleeding pretty good. I had one hand on my boob and the other on my head when Marcus busted through the door, yelling in concern.

“James! Are you OK?” Upon taking in the scene before him, he added, “What the fuck happened?”

Now I had a decision to make. Play this off like it wasn’t every nightmare I’ve ever had, or put on my big-girl panties, calmly tell him I was fine, and ask him to leave.

I chose option three. I began crying harder. Crying in frustration. Crying in pain. Crying in embarrassment.

Marcus approached me and bent down, asking me what he could do to help.

Where the fuck is my stupid sister when I need her? That traitor is probably fucking Callan somewhere on my baby blanket.