Maybe, I'm better off not thinking about the tight embrace we shared. It's way too easy to float back into Brandon's imaginary arms. One minute, I'm sitting at a booth in a retro eighties diner, watching the entire color scheme fuse together. Another moment passes as the colors combine to enact the last moment we held each other. Suddenly, Brandon and I appear in each other's arms, painted in a whirlwind of colors.

I can't focus on anything besides his hypnotic smile. My delicious, untouched strawberry milkshake slowly melts inside the fountain glass. My tastebuds are cursing the very existence of my stomach all because of one simple truth. It's weird but I don't trust myself to place my lips around a plastic straw in front of him. I don't think I'm too cool to drink out of one straw, but try to understand my entire face is against me.

We called a truce for now, but the moment I make any major movements to my cheeks, it's all-out war. My cheekbones will leave their sunken caves and see their shadows, ushering in six weeks of winter. My lips will team up with the first row of my teeth and illuminate. Even my own eyes will crinkle in excitement. The point is I'm not the type of girl to smile while sucking on a straw. THAT'S TOO DORKY!

"Your milkshake's melting," Brandon says.

I stare at him like a deer in headlights. "Do you want me to start yelling definitions?"

Brandon chuckles, throwing a French fry into his mouth. He repositions himself, moving his legs away from my trembling thighs. "You won't last one hour on the road. You're too fragile."

Brandon runs his fingers down my leg as I scout my chair across the floor. Everyone turns away from their food, their attention lingering on our table. I stare at the surface of the table, waiting for the intrusive stares to disappear. Honestly, it feels like the entire restaurant is looking inside my soul. I know I'm overreacting, but when their eyes linger I swear it's like they can see everything.

I never felt more emotionally exposed, but it's like retardation has a certain look that everyone can recognize. So, I guess that means I'm officially projecting my insecurities onto innocent bystanders like a true diva. I snap out of my thoughts the second Brandon's hand roams closer to my thigh.

"Stop putting your hands on my bare legs." I scold, tugging at the ends of my black skater skirt.

"You're the one that decided to wear a skirt."

"Not for your entertainment!" I gasp. "Pervert."

All around the world, girls take their time to slip into a fabulous red dress paired with the perfect set of black heels and a pound of makeup. They don't beat their faces ten times over for the approval of a douche wearing an 'I love boobs' t-shirt. Get real; not every girl is a slutty Cinderella looking for her sleazy Prince Charming. Sometimes we slay to feel better about ourselves, or in Lexie's case, to one-up every whore in a ten-foot radius. She's not exactly a 'girls' girl though.

Brandon steals my milkshake and reclines against his seat. He places his lips around the straw and takes a long sip before he responds. "Then what other reason are you wearing a three-inch leather skirt?"

My skirt isn't actually three inches; he's just a tool. I borrowed this from Alexis, so it's at least three and a half inches. Thank you very much!

"You're a rich, cocky meathead," I say, clicking my tongue in annoyance. "What else am I missing? Hopefully, you won't go adding douche to the list."

Brandon sets the milkshake on the table with a shrug. I almost want to take my comment back when he silently crosses his arms over his chest. I glance over the same menu I've already read. I'm trying to figure out exactly when I told him I would stab his mother to death. Our conversation has already gone from awkward to plain uncomfortable. Before I can abandon this encounter altogether, Brandon sighs in defeat. He places his hand over mine as I stare at the bruises on his knuckles.

"Sorry," He mutters. "This weekend, you're going to hear a lot of things about me. I want to protect you from the stories, but you deserve to know the truth."

"Brandon, what are you saying?"

He pulls away, monitoring my reaction. "Are you sure you want to come? I can still take you home."

One last mystery, and I'll finally be able to unravel every aspect of Wonder Boy's journey. Still, I can't help wondering why Luke tried to warn me about him. He said to ask him about King Street as if it was a matter of life and death. I never thought about it because even if I hate Brandon tomorrow, I'll always trust him.

"Whatever you're hiding, I see you. I've always seen you." I avert my gaze to his french fries and quickly slide the tray to my side of the table.

"You're insane," He declares, walking to my side of the booth, "funny, beautiful, and way too damn innocent."

"I don't know about that," I reply curtly, scouting over so Brandon can sit beside me.

If that were true, my heart wouldn't feel so hollow inside my chest. Brandon would have fallen for me the first time we kissed. I wouldn't have stayed up that night replaying that moment. As hard as I try to forget Brandon's words, they still buzz inside my head.

It's hard to let go of a memory when my heart keeps reminding me of everything people have said. My scars run deeper than the surface; they're buried next to my mother.

He raises my chin to meet his intense gaze. "You're beautiful."

For a moment, the world shifts, and Brandon Lockwood fades from Leigh Ann's diner. Then my mother looks at me with a warm smile with tears in her eyes. She was seconds from death, but she still held my face in her hands until the moment she couldn't anymore. I turned the universe off that night. I never grieved; I only bled, and now he reminds me of her.

He wipes a tear away. "Ebony, you're beautiful."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because I don't think you realize it." He whispers.

I pull away from his grasp. "I want to know why you invited me to Los Angeles. Was it on a whim?"

One minute, I can see our future written in stone, but the next, he says something that pushes us further apart. Then, all my hopes and dreams vanish into thin air. I can't be this emotionally attached to one guy; I'm not insane. There has to be an invisible line drawn in the sand: either we're together or apart. We shouldn't be this close, not when he's my obsession. He's even constantly told me he'll never feel the same.

"Look, you're special, but I didn't invite you because I'm in love with you. I'll never feel that way about you." Brandon grabs my hand and holds it with force.

"I still don't understand," I mumble.

"I should be the last person on your mind. You're beautiful, but you're still not the right girl for me."

Brandon kisses my forehead and walks away from the table. Hence, the never-ending cycle of our lives, and honestly, I can't even cry an ocean of tears. I'm used to him finding some complicated reason to reject me. The scary part is I'm done hiding behind my emotions. I don't care if he's in the men's restroom this time; he's going to face me and spell it out in layman's terms.

I grab my purse and walk to the men's bathroom. My curls brush past my shoulders, swaying through the breeze. I don't even notice Brandon talking to someone on the phone. At least not until I look behind the wall and see him standing in front of the mirror. He holds on to the sides of the sink as his cell phone leans against the faucet. I nearly run out of the room as Donovan's voice blasts through the speaker.

"If you think you can protect that fucking retard then call the police and tell them everything. I'm sure they'll cut you a good deal." Donovan seethes on the other end.

"You wouldn't be this confident if you were standing in front of me." Brandon fumes.

"I can't promise she'll still have the same IQ though." Donovan chuckles.

I lean closer to the wall, watching Brandon anchor himself in place using the sink. He's deep in thought as his foot taps against the white tiles of the bathroom floor. He starts to breathe rapidly, losing himself in Donovan's laughter. I want to reach for him, but he will only push me away. Then I'll never figure out why we keep taking one step forward only to end up at the starting line.

"You're a coward, but I promise if you even look at Ebony the wrong way. You won't have to worry about the cops." Brandon yells into the phone.

"You know you still haven't told me how to change her diapers. Come on, you can't keep all the secrets. You know she's better off passed around." Donovan lets out a whistle while his friends laugh in the background.

Brandon runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. "You think the cops know what happened between you and Amber that night?"

My eyebrows stitch together in confusion as my heart pounds inside my chest. I slam my back against the wall, afraid to keep listening but too terrified to move. Who the hell is Amber, and what did Donovan do to her? A small voice warns me to leave before it's too late, but I can't stop thinking about Roxane.

"You better hold her tight because the next time I see her, I'm laying her across the pavement." Donovan taunts.

"Shit!" Brandon screams into his phone, but the line goes completely silent. He throws his phone against the wall, pacing back and forth. I cover my mouth, quietly reaching for the door handle. I softly shut the door to the bathroom, floating in a haze. No matter how many steps I take to reality, the diner stretches further out of my grasp.

I blink, and somehow, I'm standing outside in the cold, brisk wind with my cell phone in the middle of my hand. Suddenly, a text message from an unknown number flashes across my screen.

I flick through my recent text messages with lightning speed, trying to piece together what happened. One after the other, I begin to realize random boys from my school are sending explicit requests as if I'm all too obliged to help them jack off. But that's not even the interesting part of the story. According to the first unknown number, I'm officially open for business and at a nifty discount rate of fifty cents per blowjob.

The other five messages are referrals from different guys asking when I can meet them. There's one particular text that stings more than the others. The text message says if my hair is too nappy to grip, can they get a free trial because they won't pay to have sex with a dirty skank?

I glare at the screen as a teardrop plummets to the center. I take a deep breath and turn off my cell phone. It falls inside my purse as I gaze at the stars occupying the midnight sky. They're so beautiful, hanging above the clear horizon and illuminating without a single care in the universe. I imagine it's what heaven must feel like distant, safe, and peaceful. I hold in a tearful cry, telling myself it's only a joke. It's not real, just someone's idea of a twisted game. I won't break down over meaningless words; I'm not that weak.

A wave of anxiety creeps inside my stomach, consuming every positive emotion in its path. I sense this cloud of sadness resting over my eyes, and no matter what lies I tell myself, it won't go away. The entrance to Leigh Ann's Diner opens, and instantly, I'm greeted with the smell of Brandon's cologne.

"I'm ready to go," I whisper. "I'll meet you in the car."

Brandon grabs my wrist, preventing me from walking away. "Since you're here, you think you can stay."

I nod with a blank expression.

"I meant what I said. You're inexperienced in every way. When I touch you and you squirm, it reminds me how fragile you are, and I'll do anything to protect that. Even if it means I can't be with you." He says softly.

This time, I don't stomp my feet in protest; I just stare at Brandon until he finally walks me to his Mustang. He waits after I climb inside the car to close the passenger door. Then he walks around the front of his car, climbing onto the front seat. He shuts the driver's side door and shoves his keys into the ignition. I gaze out the window as he speeds out of the parking lot into the streets, increasing momentum.