Lauren Jackson

“Did you wear that for me?”

He smells like cigarettes and whisky. Two scents a teenage boy shouldn’t smell like, but it’s a scent that’s become familiar to me. A comforting smell that lingers on my hoodies and stains my pillow after we spend hours together.

It was all a lie.

“I don’t even know you.”

“We were best friends. And now I don’t know a damn thing about you.”

“I don’t even know myself.”

“Charismatic. Strong-headed. Stubborn.” I laugh quietly. “Controlling.”

“Did you love him?”

“Is it weird to say you look a lot like your dad?”

“Good. Because I always thought your dad was pretty hot.”