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immediately spotted a folded piece of paper inside. Grabbing it, I absently tossed the wallet and cash aside and hurriedly unfolded it. My heart clenched in my chest when I saw the writing – his writing. I feasted on the words hungrily.
                  I haven’t forgotten you.
                  Friday, Club Zero – 10pm
    -B.C.
    *****
    The note was stuck to the edge of my mirror among pictures of Emily and me. I stared at it every time I walked into the bedroom. Then I’d stand there and stare at my reflection and remind myself why I couldn’t go and see him.
                  I scoffed. Why would I anyway? The warning signs were punching me in the face, and I was not a stupid girl anymore.
                  So why was I still considering it?
                  Simple. You’re still stupid, Claire.
                  “You’re going to wind up in some alleyway with your throat cut,” I whispered to myself. “The guy waits a year to send you back your wallet? A year? That’s bullshit. And crazy. No, wait, the crazy part would actually be that he knew your damn address, and it wasn’t written anywhere!”
                  A wave of goose bumps ran down my spine. I shivered and crossed my arms over my chest. Fuck, that was the scariest bit of all, wasn’t it? He knew my address!
                  I’d asked him who he was, and the cryptic answer he gave me always haunted me at night. “Someone that’s no good for you, beauty.”
                  I leaned over my dresser and read the note for the millionth time. The writing was in perfect cursive, and I was spending an unusual amount of time admiring it. He wrote this. And then he walked to the post office, purchased a satchel, placed it inside and sent it out to me.
    That was so… normal .
                  “B.C.” My brows pinched together as I wondered what it stood for. Why couldn’t he write his full name out and included his number? I’d have gladly called him up, and the sane thing would have been to ask me out to this club instead of being all cryptic and shit.
                  I was ashamed of myself just then. I couldn’t suppress the thrill inside my being. I hadn’t been given attention in months and months. Of course it didn’t help I put effort into looking like an invisible hobo – but this was Stranger we were talking about here! The man that looked at me like he wanted to ravage my soul instead of my body. The one who wouldn’t flirt back, but had the most heated “fuck me” eyes I’d ever seen.
    I went to my old, used desk and opened the bottom drawer. I pulled out my last sketchbook I’d filled the pages of and flipped through the dates. I stopped when I landed on Stranger. I hadn’t looked at this sketch in months, and seeing it now was like being knocked back a step. His eyes were so expressive, his lips large and full and pulled into a smirk.
    I set the sketch down and peered at it every few moments as I approached my dresser. Every inch of its surface was covered in make-up I hadn’t worn in forever. I grabbed at some foundation and cover up and b egan to apply it. Touching my face was hard, and I felt a twist in the bottom of my stomach every time my fingers touched my scars. But I pushed on through until my face was covered. Then I continued with some blush and eye shadow. Pulling away the attention of my scars, I perfected the smoky eyes look before finishing it off with rose coloured lip gloss and double coated mascara.
    Twenty minutes later I was wearing make-up for the first time in nine months.
    *****
    I wished Mom would stop looking at me. Ever since seeing me two hours ago, she’d perked up like never before. Her face was glowing with happiness. Here I was putting on make-up to draw the attention away from my scars, and yet she was looking at me with such intensity I felt as though I shouldn’t have