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girl who could very well have had no idea I even existed – a girl whose only fault was falling for the same guy Faye fell for and having her clit pierced when it happened.
    After a long moment, Stell released his hold on me, glancing down at my face. His gaze almost set me off anew, the lump in my throat tightening all over again. He paused, then headed to the sink to grab me a glass of water. As he disappeared, my chin creased, and I let my lip tremble.
    I could cry alone, but I didn’t want to be alone. So trembling chin crease would have to suffice.
    “Hang on. I think I have a glass in the living room.”
    I headed down the kitchen hallway, knowing full well there was no glass. I just needed a moment.
    My phone buzzed in my jeans pocket as I reached the living room. I pulled out my phone and read the message.
    I miss your laugh.
    Cole.
    I stared at it. There was a fleeting instant of joy – relief almost. I was loved. I was missed. I was important and needed and worthwhile and desirable. I’d left a mark that some pierced clit bombshell couldn’t completely erase in a matter of weeks.
    I wasn’t worthless.
    I wasn’t forgettable.
    I wasn’t unloved.
    Oh wait, yes I was.
    The fleeting, instinctive rush of hope quickly faded, then splintered and died.
    “I fucking hate him !”
    Stellan came in just in time to watch me scream at the top of my lungs and throw my cell phone across the front room, shattering it against the bricks of the fireplace. I took a breath, then dropped to the floor and screamed again. Stellan didn’t speak. He sat beside me and grabbed me, and I didn’t just bawl; I primal-scream-therapy-style bawled. I was hollering and wailing and slobbering all over this poor bastard, cursing the very air that Cole breathed. Stellan didn’t say a word.
    He’d been doing this since we were kids. When I was stood up for prom by my closest female friend because she miraculously found a date the night of the dance – Stellan let me slobber my mascara all over his Jane’s Addiction t-shirt. When I had to put my cat, Freya, down during sophomore year of college, Stellan was at the house when we got home from the vet. He handled enough snot that day to be patented by Kleenex. And when David Gregory kicked me between the legs in sixth grade and I tried to hide how much it hurt – Stellan pulled me aside during recess and let me cry.
    Stellan later punched that kid in the nuts so hard, David Gregory was out of school for three days. This tendency of his really is the opposite of Cole’s ‘asshole clairvoyance,’ – if I’m going to lose it, Stellan can tell.
    “Why is this happening?” I asked – more of a crying declaration than an actual question. Stellan rubbed my shoulders, fanning out his shirt to dry it when I finally pulled away. I frowned at the mess, but he just rubbed my head and offered to blow his nose on my sweater.
    Even Stellan had never seen me lose it like this, but I didn’t care. I was a fucking mess to be mopped up by the cleaning lady.
    He waited for me to look at him.
    I met his gaze, but could only hold it for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
    He grabbed me behind the neck, pulled me into his chest and squeezed. When he let me go, he smiled. “You’ve seen me worse.”
    I frowned.
    Stellan’s tough exterior has crumbled twice since I’ve known him. Once in a waiting room at Emerson Hospital as his father was wheeled in for surgery. The other was at the hands of a girl.
    Stellan met her Junior year of high school. She was one of those girls – you know the ones – they run in packs, all with names like Stacie, and Kylie, and Heather, and Danielle. This one was a Danielle. This one made me hate all Danielles.
    It wasn’t anything she said, really – I admit I can be a bit judgmental, but thus far, that judgment has never been wrong. It was her laugh. She had one of those awkward, almost vapid laughs - the laugh that means she didn’t get the joke, or didn’t think it was