"This is the face I wear treading the riptide,

abysmal oceans where good girls go to die."

Niykee Heaton Bad intentions

0 8

Alia

As a couple of nine year olds, Gigi and I had our first serious fight. It was about something ludicrous, but we both took it very seriously. It was around the time we first started playing dress up with our mothers' clothes, and to say that we'd been warned was an understatement. My mom used to own a sequin mini dress by Robert Rodriguez—and really, it was one of the cheapest things she kept hidden in that gigantic closet of hers—but Gigi and I both loved it. It was a deep red and we always played with the sequins, and then we took turns putting it on.

One day, I secretly sneaked the dress with me to Gigi's house and I hadn't realized I'd forgotten it there until I was back home. I'd forced Alim—who had been fourteen and completely uninterested—to call Gigi's house so I could ask for the dress back. Gigi, of course, promised me to take it with her the next time we met up.

The next day, she did. I found out the cloth was torn to pieces, shreds of red sequins falling into my lap as I cried hysterical tears for my mom's dress. Gigi cried too, because she felt so terribly sorry for leaving the dress unattended with the dogs. We were both crying messes as we explained to my mother, who'd just laughed about it and told us both it was okay.

But it wasn't. Gigi had ruined my favourite dress to play with, and so I got mad at her. We didn't speak for two weeks.

The second time we fought, we were both twelve. This time I was at fault (although I was overreacting the first time). Gigi and I used to have the tradition to go to New York Fashion Week every year with our mothers. This tradition ceased to exist by the time my mother passed away, but that didn't happen for another three years. Anyway, we always went. Always. It was the one thing we continuously looked forward to, from the very second we stepped out of the building that hosted that year's fashion week.

Now, mind you, Alim was sixteen. He was completely detached from me and didn't do anything other than partying and exploring girls. I absolutely hated it, because Alim and I used to always be close up till then and I really, really missed him. So, when Alim offered to take me to the mall, I hadn't hesitated. I was so extremely excited and even counted down the days.

I was a very clingy sister.

Then, it turned out that our outing was on the same day as our annual Fashion Week outing, and I ditched Gigi. I apologized to her but told her I wanted to go to with Alim badly.

Gigi was heartbroken. She ignored me for one month straight, a month I spent crying. I missed my best friend and cursed Alim. In the end all was well of course, and Alim had been the one to actually bring us back together.

Those were the only significant fights we'd ever had, up till now.

"Gi, please talk to me." I begged her, annoyingly tugging the sleeve of her Dalton jacket. It wasn't like me to showcase my desperation, but Gigi is my best friend and for her I don't mind letting it see through. It is Friday morning and we haven't spoken for a day, and I'm over it. I get that she's upset about Tyler and I barging into her ballet practice, interrupting her class, but we had valid reasons.

Forcefully, she pulled her arm back, turning her head sharply away from me. Her blonde waves whacked against my forehead before turning with her. I stood still, dumbfounded, and then snapped out of it. "Gigi!" I spat, waltzing after her.

"What?" she hissed, her eyes narrowing into blue slits. I grabbed her sleeve again, giving it a rough pull. She promptly halted and her hair whipped around, batting my forehead like previously. "Jesus," I mumbled. "Keep your hair out of my face, will you?"

She ignored my sarcastic remark. "What do you want, Alia?"

"You seriously cannot still be mad at me. This is ridiculous, and you know it."

"Are you kidding?" She snapped, her brows raising. "You and Tyler literally walked in, claiming you were there to 'save me' and then began trash-talking Ben for no reason! Do you really expect me to be okay with that?"

"Don't defend him." My pulse rose, gentle irritation surging through me. "He's an asshole. A violent one, at that. He hit you. How can you be okay with that?"

"Stop saying that. It was a mistake. He didn't mean to do it."

"Yeah right." My best friend was no imbecile; she knew well enough that hitting—whether a man is hitting a woman or a woman hitting a man—is not okay. It's abuse and she should stop sticking up for him. Ben was one hundred percent aware of what he'd done, yet he did it again. So much for mistakes. "He did it three times, Gigi. That's not a mistake anymore!"

She flinched at my words and in return, I shuddered. She was my best friend, knowing that her boyfriend had done that to her simply turned me into a ball of utter rage. How could he? "Look," I murmured, softening my grip around her wrist. "I'm sorry. I should've been there for you. I don't know why you felt like you couldn't tell me, but you can. You can tell me anything. Honestly, Gi, trust me on this; he's not worth it. He's not worth you."

Though her gaze had fairly softened for a few moments there, it turned rock-hard and her arm tensed in my hand. "You don't get to decide whether he's worth me or not—we love each other, and that's all that matters. You have no experience in successful relationships at all, you don't know what it's like."

That stung a bit, but she was right. I'd had plenty boyfriends, all of which I didn't mind sleeping with (not that I minded sleeping with guys that were not my boyfriend. When I were single, of course), but none of them connected to me on a spiritual level. In fact, I don't believe I've ever gotten the feeling that I'd loved any of them, which puts me in an awkward position. It's true I don't know anything about successful relationships, but then again, I know enough. Your partner should not hit you and get away with it.

"That has nothing to do with this!" I exclaimed, letting go of her. "You're better than this! Who does he think he is? He can't do this shit, Gigi!"

She stared at me with crystalline eyes, and part of me was almost certain she was about to cry, but before I could even say anything she turned on her Sophia Webster heels and loudly stomped away. Unsurprisingly, her hair thwacked my face again and in order to avoid it, I took a clumsy step back, my heel ineptly twisting.

I squeezed my eyes shut and braced myself for the fall, but then I felt two solid arms wrap around me and I opened my eyes.

The sight of Etienne's worried expression caused my eyes to water. I really hated fighting with Gigi and the fact that she wouldn't confide in me truly hurt my feelings. Albeit I tried to crop them up deeply inside, seeing how one of my friends watched me in concern was the last drop.

"You girls will be fine, Alia. You're best mates, don't worry about it." Etienne mumbled silently, his arms completely wrapping around my posture. Somehow having him here made me feel better. I took a shaky breath and shuffled closer to his wide chest, leaning my head on his shoulder. "I just want to help her. I fucking hate this."

"I know. She just needs some time and space. You can't force it." He wisely spoke, tightening his arms.

And when I realized how poorly I'd handled the situation, I cried against my new friend's chest.

Word had gone around Dalton Prep quickly about my little bawl-session with the infamous womanizer slash nonconformist slash Divine Being named Etienne Clayton. Female students actually lowered their bratty shades to watch me with hawk eyes, and the guys all ceased to stare at my thighs, like they didn't want to disrespect the Lord's property.

This, however, meant that my friends heard about it, too. It was a sunny day again, with students flocked outside. I met up with everybody for lunch on the grassy fields, unprepared for the whirlwind that had to yet come my way.

Adrian was on his feet instantly, his doe-looking eyes wide. I had to admit, he looked sexy as hell today. His dark hair shagged backward, the sleeves of his blouse were rolled up to his elbows and his jaw was extra set. A part of me just wanted to reach forward and carve those beautiful dimples back into his cheeks, but I refrained myself. He looked too pissed for that.

"Adrian. Hey." I smiled.

"You should come to me when you cry." He hissed lowly.

I blinked, stupefied. "Woah. Straight to the point."

His rough fingers enclosed my upper arms and he slightly shook me. "You come. To me. I want to be there for you, okay?"

Frowning, I scrutinized his face. His eyebrows were furrowed and his jaw was clenched tightly. His under-eyes were coloured purple, and there was a permanent sign of wariness somewhere in the lines of his face. "Are you okay?" I whispered, suddenly noticing all these little things. Bags, exhaustion and on top of that, he smelled like posh, flowery women's perfume. Also, I faintly whiffed alcohol.

"What?" He looked confused, "I'm okay. Why?"

"You don't look it." I shrugged. He let go of my arms, gritting his teeth. "Well, I'm tired."

Bullshit. "I see."

We both sat down, greeting the others. A sympathetic smile stretched over Nate's face and Etienne gave me an unrecognizable nod of support. Tyler did no such thing as he proceeded to stare at the sky. Gigi was nowhere to be found.

"You come to me. I want you with me." Adrian's voice was crass against my ear. Shivers ran up my spine upon feeling his breath alight my neck. I could sense how close he was sitting to me, the warmth practically radiating off him.

"You want me with you, when? When I'm upset?" I murmured back, one of my brows raising ever so slightly while turning my head. His face was just mere inches away from mine.

Stubble. All over his strong chin and sides.

"No," he muttered, my ear trickling again. "All the time. I want you with me, all the time."

My heart nearly leapt at his gruff voice and intense eye contact. A lopsided smirk spread over his face, his dimples appearing.

"I wish you could come to the party." I decided to respond. He licked his lips, "Me too."

His russet brown eyes sparkled brilliantly, dancing. He didn't look all that bothered by having to miss Asher's party, and instead he focused on flashing me his gorgeous dimples. Words were quite unnecessary as we blatantly viewed each other. It was the kind of silence that simply didn't need words, because we both knew we were thinking the same way.

"Yeah, me too." Nate piped up, a boyish grin gracing his lips. Etienne guffawed, playfully fisting Nate's side and then pulled back without a second thought. "Nathaniel, you're hilarious. I think I broke my hand."

I let out a chuckle. "Nate, you're supposed to be the nice one!"

"There's more to me than only 'nice', Alia." His words were stern, but Nate's face was light and smiling. I didn't need to ponder his words, because it had become clear that Nate Cooper was everything, nice included. Nate's white grin could unintentionally light up the entire room and he could have any girl he ever wanted with one click of his fingers. Yet, the guy was shy and humble. He didn't want much—he just wanted to reach his goals and keep his best friends.

There was something really admirable about that, especially in comparison with everyone else in this community.

So, I smiled genuinely at him.

When I got home after school, it appeared that there was a charity event I was forced to attend. It was held at one of the many hotels in the Upper East side and was hosted by no other than Candide Clayton, Etienne's mother. Candide literally meant bright and glowing, which was the perfect description of William Clayton's wife. She was a chipper woman, with impeccable blonde curls and dazzling green eyes; just like her son. I'd seen her many times before, but only now did I make the connection.

The waiters whirled around serving sugared gubinge, camu camu and acai berries, all of which weren't enough to fill my poor stomach. The exotic fruits were one of Candide Clayton's specialties and she loved providing her guests with it. In addition to the fruits, there was a special macaron table, hand-picked by Candide herself when she was in Paris. The ballroom was beautifully lit with excessive chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and colourful flowers prinking the place up some more.

Though the chandeliers were very Upper East Side, the flowers were a nice dish up. Besides, they made the whole place feel more Parisian, which was exactly what Candide was aiming for.

As always, women wore lavish gowns and swank headpieces, and the men all sported Armani/Boss suits with ritzy shoes and gelled hair.

Because of the fact that I liked fashion, I hadn't slacked in my appearance. The dress I'd chosen was short and strapless, but it was a divine Lorick piece—and it wasn't available anywhere else anymore.

Dad, Alim and I shared our table with Gigi and her parents, but fortunately they didn't pick up on our fight. They danced, gossiped and laughed.

Aside from Alim. I didn't know where he was, but I bet he's off somewhere hooking up with a girl.

I cautiously leered at Gigi. Her hair was in a complex updo and although she looked very nice, her face was hard. She made sure her gaze didn't fall on me and avoided me at every cost.

"Gi." I mumbled softly, trying to grab her attention. She didn't even flinch, tapping away on her phone. I groaned and then repeated, "Gigi. Talk to me."

Nothing.

"Fine, fuck it," I hissed irritably. I stood up, harshly pushing my chair back as I turned around and schlepped away from our table. What the hell was wrong with her? She was honestly upset about how much I cared for her? Was that even possible?

Those thoughts spun in my head while I gritted my teeth and shimmied through the masses of people.

Like, I get it. He's her boyfriend. She loves him. Fine. Nonetheless, that was no reason to push me away—especially not when she's in need of my help. No matter how much she claims she doesn't.

I impeccably avoided the waiters and their trays of pink macarons and glazed apples, my heart lurching in my throat. I didn't know where I was going, I just knew I needed out of this suffocating place.

And in the haze of wanting to get out, I stepped on somebody's dress and glided. Just like this morning I braced myself for the painful thud and buzzing gossiping of the socialites around me—but it never came. Instead, I felt two familiar arms graze my body, handily helping me stand up straight. My cheeks reddened as I faced Etienne, who was shamelessly laughing. "You have no balance at all."

"I can't believe you're the one who caught me, again." I responded as his arms dropped to his sides. He shrugged, a cheeky grin curling his lips. "What can I say? I have a damsel-in-distress radar in my head."

"This was hardly a damsel in distress moment, idiot, I just happen to trip a lot." We fell into a steady pace, though I had no clue where we were heading. Etienne chattered vibrantly about some charity auction he went to a couple of hours ago, describing the paintings vividly. I didn't interrupt him because he looked completely in his zone and his eyes twinkled. Plus, it was a great distraction.

But Etienne picked up on my sulking and promptly stopped talking, eyeing me with narrowed eyes. "Are you okay?"

"I'm great."

"You're still upset about Georgia." He concluded, crossing his arms in front of his chest. I nodded, "Of course. She's my best friend."

"Exactly, which is why you'll make up anyway." We rounded a corner. I frowned subtly, looking at him in incredulity. "How can you be so sure?"

"How can you not be?" He retorted, grabbing my arm to lead me into the right direction. My frown deepened as I noticed we were leaving the grand festivities and were entering the normal parts of the hotel. "Where are we going?"

"To one of the suites. My mom's a sweetheart, but I don't like spending my entire evening eating shitty fruits and fucking macarons. They remind me of my snobby neighbours in Paris, who eat macarons more than they drink water. Such wankers." He groaned to emphasize his comment and I chuckled, shaking my head.

"You're as snobby."

"Please," he rolled his eyes. "You haven't met them. They're awful."

I snickered, nudging his shoulders. He laughed lightly.

"Tell me about Paris," I said. "And London. Tell me about London, too. It's so cool you get to travel so much." It was. Etienne was the epitome of bright and free, with his angelic features and lively mood. Knowing that he was French and English and that he had houses there—which he visited very often—too, just added to it. Everything about him was refreshing, from his physique to mentality to background.

"I love them," he spoke. "But they're not that special. They're my homes, you know? They feel just like New York to me."

"But they're different. They're Paris and London."

"Honestly, ma louloute, they're overhyped." The corners of his mouth tug up as I rolled my eyes at the nickname. "You get to travel to Europe every summer. Of course they're overhyped in your eyes."

He stared at the path in front of us, a distant expression crossing his face. "Visiting Paris and London—places I live in—shouldn't be considered travelling. I want to travel, though. Really travel. I want to see the world. This," he pointed at his surroundings, "is nothing compared to everything I haven't seen yet. New York is just a city filled with stuck-up, rich socialites that judge you for everything. I want to see eastern Europe, Asia, the Middle-East... Russia, Africa, Australia... I mean, I haven't seen shit yet."

Just like moments ago when Etienne informed me on the charity auction, his eyes lit up. He clearly loved talking about travelling, and I believed this was his true passion. I agreed with him on everything he said besides the way he described New York.

New York was more than that—more than a city with ritzy socialites.

"I went to Asia last summer," I looked at him. He looked back at me, his eyes wide and longing. "You did?"

"Yeah, I went with my brother."

"Tell me about it."

I did.

Apparently, Etienne's whole 'let's go to one of the suites' thing wasn't more than a made-up story. It was true that I'd ended up in a luxurious suite—but it wasn't with him. First, I was accompanied by Etienne and Nate and Tyler, who were already gulping alcohol like there was no tomorrow. Then, they suddenly left and a very confused Gigi got pushed into the room.

They locked the door.

Gigi's pale, slender fingers were tightened around a half-bitten, green macaron. Her blonde hair hung limply down one shoulder and she wore a skin-tight Peter Pilotto dress. In contrary to the glare she'd sported earlier, her face was softer. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat and heaved a sigh, carefully leering at her. "Sneaky shitheads."

"Sneaky shitheads, indeed." She murmured, plopping down on one of the gigantic chairs. I did the same and sat down on the edge of the bed, partially happy that she'd replied to me.

Before I knew it, a sob escaped her chest and the macaron in her hand fell on the ground. "I just love him," she cried.

My heart thudded against my rib cage as I sprung to my feet and engulfed Gigi into a warm embrace, resting my chin on top of her head. She sniffed against my neck, wrapping her arms around me. "Shh," I murmured. "It's okay. I know you do. We all do."

"I'm so sorry I acted like a bitch."

"You had the right to. Stop apologizing, Gi. Just tell me, are you okay?"

She pulled herself out of the hug, looking at me with red, blotted eyes. They were a toned-down version of her usual blue orbs, which fuelled my anger. "He didn't hurt me, if that's what you mean. I... don't know what to do. I know it was wrong, but I love him yet I also want to break up with him."

I wiped her tears away. "Let me help you."

"I don't know..."

"Let me. You trust me, right? Just let me help you. You'll never have to see that prick's face ever again."

She inhaled sharply, her eyes watering again.

"And also," I spoke, a simper curling my lips. "Make up with Tyler, okay? He told me about last summer and I have to say that I'm very disappointed you didn't tell me all the details about his magnificent penis."

She snorted, and then burst out into a rowdy laugh.