Chapter 3

Art? Maybe. I was no professional when it came down to it, though It seems to be a hobby of mine. People tell me I'm not bad. Who am I kidding, though? Being a artist in the real world must be hard, I can only imagine.

I gnaw on my nails as I think of this, walking into the clearing. My thoughts seem to drift away once I catch sight of Adam talking to his father. They both seem to be giving me occasional glances my way. It causes me to quicken my pace and direct my eyes towards my house, or well, shack. I hope they catch the drift I'm in no mood to stop and chat.

They don't.

"Ronnie!" It's Adam. I don't stop. I reach into my bag swiftly, grabbing my head phones and shoving it into my ears. At least if he catches up with me, I'll have the excuse that I was listening to music.

Still, he rushes over to me. "Ronnie!" He calls again. I ignore him the best I can and reach my house. Mentally, I'm cheering and thinking, yes! I made it!

The happiness I once felt dwindles as I feel Adam's hand make contact with my shoulder and twirls me around to face him. I stumble back, putting some distance between us when I notice just how close he's standing.

"Could you not hear me or-" He begins, but I shake my head rapidly and point to my ears, emphasizing the fact I have head phones on.

"What? Sorry, I can't hear you. I'm in a rush. I have.. my cat to feed. See you later!" I make a attempt to get away when he tugs on my head phones. They slip off my head and into his hands.

He dangles them between his fingers, staring down at the fact I have no iPod attached to them.

I cuss under my breath. How did the thought never occur to plug them in?

"So much for listening to music," He mutters. "And you have a cat?"

I fidget with my fingers, biting down on lip. "Um, yeah. Birthday present." It's a lie. And he can tell. I don't have a cat. Come to the think of it, I don't even like cats. Not that they aren't cute or anything, but I'm more of a dog person. How ironic is that?

"Well, that must be a bad birthday present since you don't like cats." He says and thrusts the headphones back into my reach. I nod numbly and take them from him.

"Yeah," I agree, "Totally. Nice chat we had. But I have to-" This time, it's not me who rushes to speak.

"Are you coming to the monthly bonfire tonight?" He asks. "Or do you have to feed your cat then, too?"

I flush, my face probably turning beet red before I glare at him. God, I'm so stupid for coming up with that excuse. "Uh, probably. It's mandatory, isn't it?"

"It is tonight," He answers with a nod. "We really need you there tonight. You've been ditching out on the last few. So that's why I came over to talk to you."

My eyebrows shoot up. For two reasons.

1. The, "We really need you there tonight" part.

And, 2. How he notices I've been missing from the other monthly bonfires. I never knew he realized I was gone from those. I guess I just figured my presence wasn't needed, nor cared for.

"Why do you need me there?" I manage to ask. He just stares at me, a ominous glint in his eyes that leads me to believe whatever they need me for is not gonna be something I like.

"We just do." He says nonchalantly and gives me a shrug. He turns on his heels, strutting away. "See you later, Ronnie."

I stare after him confused. Dumbstruck, even. Apparently, I'm not the only one who's watching him walk away. I notice other girls from the pack staring after. But all for the wrong reasons. They stare because they lust for him. I stare because I'm crossed between running after and demanding a answer for him, perhaps even punching the basterd who hasn't spoken to me in years.

I shake my head. He's not worth it. He never was.

I turn away from him and march into my house. Dropping my bag by the door. I know my father is aware I'm home since I hear the shuffle of his feet, his erratic breathing, and the sound of drawers closing.

I lean against the counter, shutting my eyes. I know what he's trying to do. Mask the fact he's been sitting on the couch, staring at the pictures of her. I wonder when he'll get over it and move on with his life. I have.

I came to accept the fact she isn't coming back. He hasn't. I pity him because he's pathetic. Not because I care. Though some part of me begs to differ.

I was so done trying to help him a long time ago. He refuses to even talk about it. Or her for the matter. So how can I help, when he doesn't clearly wanna help himself?

I can't even remember the last time we had a proper talk. I can't remember the last time he's told me he loves me.

But it's not like I need it. I'm fine on my own. With that thought, I abandon the support from the counter and place the dirty plates in the sink, then turn on the water and begin to scrub away from them.

"Ronnie?" He calls. "Is that you?"