I don't own Twilight.
Secrets are dark things that fester in dark places. My secrets haunted me. They hid around corners and tried to ruin me. Or, I felt like they did.
Secrets destroy. Secrets grow. Secrets consume.
Everyone knows that secrets can eat you alive from the inside out with guilt, or can come back to stab you in the back with a double-edged knife.
But was I supposed to share mine?
No, I couldn't.
I'd take it to my grave.
Jared was keeping something from me. I guess it was hypocritical for me to be upset about it -after all, I was keeping my fair share of secrets.
In fact, I was talking to one of them right now.
Well, arguing, but it's pretty much the same thing with Jen.
"I don't see a problem with it," Jen said, lying sprawled across my bedroom floor flipping through a magazine. And when I say flipping, I mean flipping. I doubted she had a chance to read anything before she turned the next page. The magazine just seemed to have no end, either. It just kept going and going and going.
It was completely and totally irritating.
I was completely and totally irritated.
I wondered what would happen if I stepped on her.
Would she disappear?
Would my foot go through her?
Would I wake up from this nightmare?
Would the magazine still be there?
"I do," I said, going through my clothes, knowing she'd just wind up on my bed with that obnoxious magazine in hand. Then she would flip though it more out of spite.
"It's a skirt. There's nothing wrong with showing a little leg." Flip.
I shot a glare at her. Flip. Flip.
"I want to be comfortable tonight. I won't be comfortable if I'm wearing a skirt."
Flip. "You need confidence, Kimmy. Face it, we have stunning legs. Stunning legs plus skirt equals confidence. It's a no brainer." Flip.
"Look, Kimmy, I don't see why you're so worried anyway. His parents are going to love you." Flip.
"You don't know that. You're not psychic -despite what you'd like to believe."
"One, your scathing tone hurts. Two, your scope on the supernatural is narrow. And three, if you knew anything at all, you'd know I prefer the term 'clairvoyant.'"
I ignored her, holding a sweater up against my torso so I could imagine what it would look like with the pants I was wearing. I really don't know why, because it doesn't work. You really can't know what something will look like until you're wearing it.
"No," Jen vetoed, without even looking up from her magazine.
"I like it," I mumbled.
"It's orange," she said, like that was the worst possible thing in the entire world. Flip.
"You wear orange all the time," I accused.
"Not next to my face," she said. "And you want to know why? We don't have the complexion for it. Copper and orange don't mix, Kimmy. You'll feel retarded the entire night."
She was right.
"I usually am," she smiled smugly.
I threw the sweater into the reject pile -it was getting rather large.
If it gets any larger I'll have to dub it a mountain.
"Could you at least help?" I asked, exasperated.
"I am!" she said indignantly. Flip. "You're just not listening to any of my advice."
"All you've said is to wear a skirt. I'm not wearing a skirt because, one, it's cold, and two, I haven't shaved my legs."
"So shave your legs," she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the entire world. Flip.
"I don't have time!" I snapped, before composing myself. "I'm sorry, I- I'm just frustrated."
I glance at her and caved. "Are you sure there going to like me?"
She met my gaze and sat up, pushing her magazine to the side.
"Kimmy, I'm absolutely positive! They'll love you." Her earnest voice was coming out, and her eyes were widening. Any minute the sincere pout would appear, and I would cave to her antics. "I mean, what's not to love? Besides myself, and no one needs to know about me. But you know that."
What's not to love? Does she want me to make a list?
"Oh, don't be such so negative! Trust me."
Ah, and there was the pout.
I scowled- then sighed in resignation.
"I'm not caving about the skirt."
She squealed. "That's fine. Pants are fine, I guess."
What have I gotten myself into?
"Wear your nice jeans -the ones without the rips. You can't look like you're headed to a job interview, and those slacks scream waitress. But you can't look too casual, so wear the lace shirt that your mother got you for Christmas last year."
I held up a finger. "One problem -it's see-through."
"So wear the blue spaghetti strap shirt from the reject pile under it."
I tugged the jeans out of the drawer, grabbed the lace shirt off its hanger, and tugged the blue shirt from the bottom of the reject pile before looking up at her with dubious eyes. I opened my mouth to question her before she cut me off.
"Yes, Kimmy Co, I'm sure. Besides, Jared loves it when you wear blue."
I'd been avoiding thinking about him. An anomaly, I know.
"He has to have his reason," Jen whispered, seeing my expression.
I slid my slacks off awkwardly and tossed them on the reject pile.
"It just- I mean, I know I don't have any right- but I-" I stumbled on my words and on the pant leg of my jeans.
"It hurts," Jen said.
"It feels like-" I said, only to have my words cut off by the blue shirt. I'd forgotten why this one had wound up in the reject pile. It was so tight.
"Like he doesn't trust you. Yeah, I know."
I looked at myself in the mirror and tugged at the blue tank top. "Are you su-?"
"Yes, I'm sure. You don't look fat. You couldn't look fat if you tried. Trust me."
I sighed, and yanked the lace shirt over my head.
"You know," she said. "This is probably how Jared feels all the time. Like you don't trust him."
I froze with the lace shirt bunched up under my boobs, and thought about that.
"Jared's a smart boy, Kim. He's noticed."
I swallowed thickly on the lump of guilt in my throat.
"I can't. You know that."
"I know you can't talk about me. But you haven't talked about your mother. Or your father."
I didn't know what to say about that, so instead I tugged down my bunched up shirt and smoothed it over my stomach.
"He deserves to know," she said.
"I know. Believe me, I know."
I glanced in the mirror and saw conflicted eyes staring back.
"You want him to know," Jen said, so unnecessarily.
"Yes… and no."
"You should tell him. He'll take it well, because, well, because he's Jared. He loves you."
I whipped around and stared at her.
"I mean," she smiled. "What's not to love?"
"He doesn't -"
She pointed to herself. "Clairvoyant."
"Trust me, Kimmy. That boy is so in love with you he probably shits chocolates and roses."
I couldn't help but laugh.
"See, now that's the Kimmy that's going to impress the parents. And you want to know why?
I rolled my eyes, smile still glued on my face. "Sure."
"Because you love him too."
The protest is on my lips when she vanishes, because we both know it's pointless.
Because she's right.
She usually is.