nineteen and unravelling
My hazel eyes were framed by a light touch of mascara, and my curls—which had miraculously cooperative bounce today—were mostly piled high with a few thick coils framing my jawline.
Talia, on the other hand, looked like she was ready for an impromptu photoshoot or a casting call. She was wearing a tiny, pleated white tennis skirt that highlighted her legs, a cropped baby-blue polo knit that hugged every curve of her five-foot-four frame, and chunky white designer sneakers. Her sleek, light brown hair was slicked back into a high, glossy ponytail, and she wore gold hoops so large they practically touched her shoulders. She looked breathtaking, expensive, and unmistakably dangerous.