Page 85 of The Other Side

I can’t help but think the element of thought is too.

I’ve never received a piece of jewelry from him that was engraved or personalized for our relationship. Instead, they’re always glimmering with an abundance of diamonds.

Jesse’s fingers brush mine as he plucks the velvet container from me. Then he’s prying the lid open with a smirk.

My brows perk when the continuous row of diamonds circles around the insert. “Wow,” I mutter, tracing my gaze over the tennis necklace. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I’m the one who should be doing all the talking,” he answers, unraveling the sparkling chain. “I always knew I wanted to get you a tennis necklace to match the tennis bracelet I gave you for Valentine’s Day this year.”

“It’s so shiny,” I whisper.

He lightly chuckles, taking the bag from me. He sets it down on the dresser beside us, resting the velvet box there as well. “Here, I’ll put it on. I want you to wear this tonight.”

My mouth opens to stop him, but he’s already stationed behind me.

I offer a timid grin, our eyes glued through the mirror as he curls the jewelry around my throat. “It’s never going to happen again,” he declares lowly.

His dark eyes are soft as he wags his head.

I remain quiet when my stare skims the sparkly string of diamonds. The pads of my fingers absently trace the chain, and my mind sinks into a trance.

I’m facing my reflection. I expect to be impressed with how well the accessory complements my outfit. But I don’t see anything admirable at all. As it turns out, my appearance hasn’t changed one bit.

Not from yesterday. Last week. Last month. Last year.

Not from ten years ago.

I still look just as lost as I did back then. The only difference is my wounds are dressed up. They look a little more sophisticated so they don’t raise too many red flags.

It’s an illusion.

Like I’m staring into a funhouse mirror, but it’s reversed. My eyes see what they want to see, but my mind knows it’s not the truth.

* * *

I scoop a forkful of steak into my mouth. Roger and Lindsey’s eyes light up from across the linen, and it’s like Jesse just told them he cured cancer.

All he did was mention the fact that he bought himself a second Rolex.

My eyes scan the rich, wood interior of the steakhouse. I swallow the last of the savory marinade, wafts of butter and herbs lingering around the table.

They blend with the soft lighting as Jesse maneuvers his fork toward him to showcase his wrist. “It’s the Rolex Submariner. I figured I’d treat myself knowing I’m about to lock in a great investment deal.”

“Almost catching up to me with my watch collection,” Roger jokes, sipping his tall glass of red wine.

I pop my gaze over Roger’s head, escaping the pretentiousness of this conversation.

My fork mindlessly twirls between my fingers as I skate my eyes around the room. Everyone is dressed to the nines. Either in cocktail dresses or suit pants. They’re sitting straight in their leather chairs, taking delicate sips of their drinks before carefully biting into their food. As similar as everyone looks in their clothes, they look just as identical in their emotions.

Robotic.

My eyes trail the panoramic angle of the restaurant. It dawns on me that I can’t point out a single person who is laughing. There are smiles here and there, maybe even a few mild chuckles, but there’s no strength behind them.

I know what a true smile looks like.

I know this because there was a period of time when I didn’t have many reasons to smile. I had to wear a disguise in front of my peers and teachers at school, but I remember what genuine happiness looks like. What it feels like.

That kind of joy never circulated my heart often. When it did, I could remember the exact expression I was wearing. I could remember the precise moment my lungs bloated to life.