I Like You Like This

you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.

descent down her arms and into her hands, causing her thumbs to ache. The awful memory from last winter suddenly consumed her: the day she wore the wrong skirt to church.

Hannah had bought the outfit with her babysitting money—a denim skirt that fell a few inches above her knee, paired with flats and a pink golf shirt worn with the collar up. The look was very trendy around school, but just to be sure, Hannah ran the outfit by her mother, who barely looked up from her Sunday paper before nodding her approval. Every week they went through the same drill. Hannah had to dress up for church, usually in a skirt or dress. Jeans were never allowed. It was like church was a fashion show where the parents in her town paraded their kids down the aisle for all to envy. God doesn’t really care what you wear, Hannah thought, does He?

Her mother, for some reason, had stopped coming to church, preferring to stay home in her bathrobe while Kerry, her six-year-old sister, entertained herself. Hannah was never allowed to miss mass.

crawling up the back of her neck and into her scalp underneath her dark auburn hair, flushing her pale Irish skin crimson.
“Harlot,” the voice in the mirror pulsed back at her

Her fingertip—the same one that had caused the damage to begin with—helped cloak her shame, filling her nail with a ghoulish mixture of cover-up, skin, and blood that she expertly flicked away. Hannah finished the charade with one last look into her old Princess Barbie hand mirror as the first cracks of sunlight poked through her bedroom window. What a mess, she thought. If only she hadn’t picked last night, and then again this morning, making this daily magic act even harder.

Hannah gave up. She knew she wasn’t fooling anyone. Especially him.

She yanked off her old pom-pom hat, the one she used to tame her uncontrollable hair. It gave her a headache. Big hair was in, but hers carried it to the point of being comical. Hannah took a step back. Yep, it still looked frizzy and cone-shaped, and like nothing her mother would ever want to see. “If only you’d just take care of it right,” she could hear her saying.

She didn’t feel like going inside; the November night air felt good against her skin.

To her parents, a proper appearance always trumped sensitive feelings.

The door opened before he had a chance to knock. “D . . . good to see you, been a long time, man.”
“Thomas.”

Yep, that’s them. Gotta go.”
Hannah held the receiver in her hand, letting the dial tone numb her ear. Warm tears stung her eyes as she stood in her hollow kitchen, surrounded by grime and neglect, watching the starburst clock clip away the seconds of her sad, pathetic life.

Instead, he’d looked into her eyes and kissed her soul.
“I loved you at your darkest,” she whispered.

“Deacon really loved you, Hannah.”
Hannah took a long, deep breath, and the truth revealed itself to her in that moment. “He loved the power—and the drugs—more.”