Empty Promises (The Promises Series Book 3) (10 page)

“It’s mega bright! Like I think I need to switch out my glasses for my shades.” She grins and I perch on the end of my bed laughing. “What made you decide to color your hair pink? I thought you were in there putting a few highlights in it.”

“Why not pink? I just wanted to do something different for once.” I don’t add that it’s on my bucket list because … well, because she still doesn’t know about that. I’ve checked off the tattoo and now I can put a check next to this, too.

“With your hair in that pixy cut, you look like a sexed-up version of Tinker Bell on steroids! It’s cool though. You’re owning it.”

“Um …Thanks.”
I think?

“Are you keeping it like that for the winter formal?” she asks, sitting beside me on my bed.

Damn, I hadn’t thought of that.
My face contorts into a grimace and she instantly begins to laugh. Blair has the best laugh ever; she has no control over it and involuntarily snorts. It’s hilarious.

“You forgot, then,” she states rather than asks and I fall back with my hands over my face.

“Yep … I got a little while though, right? When is it?”

“You have two weeks,” she confirms.

“Oh, that’s not so bad,” I reply, sitting back up. I can be blonde by then … I think.

“You could keep it that color. It would look great contrasting against the blue of your dress.”

“Nope, I have a plan and a firm vision in my head of how I need to look that night, to pull it off.” She raises her brows, waiting for me to clarify, but I don’t. Instead, I grin and then hop up off the bed. “Come on, let's go make popcorn and watch a movie. I’ll make you a milkshake,” I offer.

“You had me at popcorn. Plus,” she pauses for effect, “I wouldn’t miss your folks’ reaction to your hair for the world, I need popcorn just to witness that.” I roll my eye but laugh in spite of myself. I should grab my cell so I can take a picture.

This should be fun.

Who knew that store bought permanent hair color was actually permanent? Not me, that’s for sure. I had edgy, cool, bright pink hair for a week. Then I tried to dye it blonde and ended up with aluminous orange. You know, the color of prison jumpsuits. I rocked the pink. The orange? Not so much. Blair said if you dressed me in a pair of denim overalls, I’d look like Chucky from that slasher movie. Dad thought it was hilarious and actually high-fived her.
Assholes.

Mom drove me to the salon this morning and Hayley, the hairdresser, took one look at me and flinched. I’m currently sitting under the dryer with my head saran wrapped. I feel like a freaking hors-d'oeuvre about to be slapped onto a platter and offered out to one and all. The little buzzer Hayley had set begins a jarring shriek beside my ear. I have no escape from the shrillness; the dome dryer is acting as a soundboard and I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, waiting for the horrendous noise to be dealt with. Hayley saunters over with a broad grin and peels back some of the saran wrap, prodding at my head with the end of her comb. She sucks the air in through her teeth and I tense my shoulders in panic.

“This is going to need a bit longer,” she says, patting the plastic film back in place with all the finesse of a blind drunk. She presses so hard, I slink back into my seat and she chuckles, pulling me forward. “Careful, sugar, you been drinking or something?” she says jokingly, as I sit with my mouth gaping open.

Seriously?

She leans in close enough that I can smell the cherry lip gloss she’s wearing and whispers, “I had a few cheeky glasses of wine last night myself. Hell of a hangover this morning. You want to try a hair of the dog? It’ll fix you right up.” She flips her long blonde hair and walks away to tend to another client.

I’m too stunned to form a reply. That’s all I need—a ditzy, half-wasted woman bleaching my hair before the formal. This can’t end well.

Shit.

My head is starting to tingle, which I’m pretty damn sure is a bad thing. I look around the salon from my seat—the same seat I’ve been in for what feels like hours. I’m contemplating getting up and rinsing this crap off myself when Hayley walks back.

“Okay, sugar, let's get you over to the basins,” she drawls and I’m mentally thanking God that she’s not leaving me under the dryer any longer. The ceiling above the basins is mirrored, and I watch in horror as the peroxide cocktail I’ve been smothered in washes away, leaving almost-white hair in its wake.

Hayley must notice the look of sheer panic that’s painted on my features and giggles—actually giggles. Like leaving me looking like some sort of albino rat in a drug trial is acceptable. “Relax, Emily. I have to add toner to it yet.”

Thank fuck.
The bright orange Chucky hair looked way better than this.

I close my eyes and don’t look again as she massages what I’m assuming is the toner into my hair. She's regaling me with a story of how she once dyed her own hair black when she was younger, and immediately hated it. Because she’s naturally a very light blonde, she researched how to return it to its natural color on the Internet. Apparently, the forum she'd sourced her information from wasn’t such a great authority on hair care. Someone had posted that if she washed her hair in Pine-Sol, it would strip back the color. So she did! Not only did it NOT work, it made her hair indigo and she smelled like a forest for the next two weeks. I’m glad she can laugh as she’s telling me this because it’s disguising me hyperventilating over the fact that I’ve let this crazy woman anywhere near me.

IT’S T-MINUS ONE hour and counting until West Point High’s senior winter formal.

“So, how do I look?” I ask, twirling around in front of my bedroom mirror. I’m wearing the midnight blue, floor-length strapless gown that I bought with Mom. The dark material is a much starker contrast to my pale skin than I first envisioned it would be. I think maybe my HB levels are low; I’m sure I didn’t look this pallid the last time I tried the dress on. I’m almost halfway through my six-month life expectancy and today, for the first time, I feel like it may be starting to show.

“You look amazing,” Blair answers with a smile. “If you were ever going to make a play for Ethan Jamison, you should do it in that dress.”

“You know what? I think tonight may be the night. This is most likely going to be the last winter formal I attend. I’m making the most of it.”

She attempts a weak smile as my words register and I instantly feel bad for making her sad. Today has been a good day, and I’m hoping tonight will be even better, so I want my best friend happy and on form.

“Let’s go down and let your mom and dad take a billion photos so we can get out of here,” she replies.

“Wait, I need to fix my hair!” I tell her with a hint of amusement to my lilt. As it happens, Hayley has done an excellent job on my hair. It’s not exactly the same as my natural color, but it’s pretty damn close. I lick the palm of my hand, smooth it across my head and wiggle my eyebrows, smirking. “Done!”

Blair rolls her eyes and shakes her head in amusement. I know she’s jealous; it only takes me two-seconds to style my own hair. She had to endure forty minutes of teasing and coiffuring with a shit ton of bobby pins and enough hairspray to be labeled the sole instigator in the problem with the ozone layer. Blair walks ahead of me in her green, fifties-style prom dress as we make our way through the house. It’s only seconds before we’re bombarded by camera flashes.

“You two look beautiful,” Dad tells us, peeking up from behind his camera lens.

“Thanks, Bill,” Blair grins before he lunges into the obligatory curfew and ‘stay safe, don't drink and drive, be careful’ talk. We’re finally allowed out of the door after my Mom gushes over how pretty we look and poses between us for a few more shots.

We arrive at the school gym, which has been decorated in mounds of silver and white sparkly tinsel; it’s like Christmas threw up a few months early. Fake snow has been laid out, and snowflake decorations cover every available surface in sight. I’m feeling a little lightheaded, and I’m really hoping it’s just the excitement and rushing about we’ve been doing. I grab Blair’s hand and head straight to the dance floor. I love to dance; it’s so freeing. Blair’s not big on it, although she has great rhythm. I think she just lacks the confidence to let herself go completely and let the music take over.

We dance for at least six songs, but I can feel myself dizzying. I stop and stumble as Blair reaches for my arm. “Shit, are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just need to sit down, I think. I’m a little dizzy.”

She immediately links her arm through mine and guides me to one of the bench seats that line the perimeter of the room. We sit down, watching the crowd as I concentrate on taking deep calming breaths.
Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale
… Don’t do this, I plead with my body. Don’t fail me yet.

“You feel better now?”

“Yeah, a little bit. I guess I just overdid it,” I answer as I look up and notice Ethan Jamison walking towards the halls.
Okay, this is it.

“You know what, Blair? I’m gonna make a move. He can only say no, right?”

Her smile is huge as she nods in agreement. “Definitely!”

It’s all the encouragement I need. I stand and smooth my dress down, ready to go and make my play on the guy that I’ve fantasized about for so long now.
Even if things do go well, how could they ever match what I’ve built up in my head?
I give the thought all of two seconds before shaking it off and decide that I need to find out.

I don’t know what’s going on.

I’m on the floor and Blair looks terrified. I can taste the metallic tang of blood on my lips and raise my hand to my face before realizing that my nose is gushing with blood.

“Em, Jesus … Are you okay? Your body just went limp and before I could catch you, you’d collapsed on the floor in front of me,” she says in one long shuddering breath.

I want to reply, but I’m choking on the blood that’s now filling the back of my throat.

It was one of the teachers who called the ambulance that has transported us to the hospital. This whole night feels like a blur. One minute I’m on a manhunt for Ethan, and the next thing I know, I’m sitting in the Teenage Cancer Unit common room with Blair, hooked up to an IV of platelets. I look like I’m being drip fed a giant Capri sun. I look around the room for a moment; we’re dressed in evening gowns and heels and look completely out of place.