VERONICA & RACHELÂ | @racheloshea
This isnât the first time youâve done this. Veronica tells herself as she wipes away yet another shade of lipstick furiously, the tissue in her hand tainting with yet another smear of color. Apricot. Pale pink. Burgundy. None of the shades manage to make her feel more confident, none manage to alleviate her doubts or insecurities. She feels like a girl playing dress up, playing at being a woman. Nothing comes easy in her interactions with people she is attracted to, even less so with those she likes and she likes Rachel. She likes her a lot more than most of the people she sees on a daily basis. Fortunately though she does not like her too much. From the get go it had been clear that their little arrangement was about release, about fun and although it was never made clear that it ought to step her Veronica knew better than to get attached.
The problem was that Rachel had been her first and that as her first times kept on happening with her from that point on Veronica couldnât help but feel as though she was passing a test with each encounter and there was nothing she hated more than to feel unworthy. It seemed she was determined not to fail anyoneâs expectations even when the person she sought to impress had never expressed any in the first place.Â
What helped alleviate her worry rather than endless options of make up was booze. She always arrived just the slightest bit intoxicated, wine still coating her tongue just to embolden her a bit. It made her brave enough to ask for what she wanted even the feeling tended to die down quickly, somewhere around the time Rachelâs hand found her way to Veronicaâs skin.
The path towards Rachelâs dorm was one she knew by heart now and she made her way there in a mere fifteen minutes. She was looking forward to a night to unwind and although she did feel a pinch of guilt at having suggested it last minute she figured they both needed a break after the disastrous affair that had been yesterdayâs brunch.Â
She knocked on Rachelâs door, exhaling a shaky sigh. âRach, itâs me. Itâs Ronnie.â
Her dreams coiled dark with blood and burgundy, the roar of gunfire bursting ahead as masked men pursued her pounding feet. Tree roots tangled her path, the smell of mildew rising as her ankle crashed her downward, cinched in the teeth of a fox trap. âRun, rabbit.â Julianâs voice, green and swirling around her. âOr can pawns like you move but one square at a time?â Rachel pulled against the metal teeth hooking around her, trapped as the world melted, the sunless forest replaced by a cotton castle until she fell into a soft, red seat. Two thrones. Two spears. Two queens. All facing her.
âSweet Rachel, youâve betrayed me.â Emilyâs face became clear as it drew forward, Cecelia Beauxâs gaunt beside it. âTo swear allegiance to Death behind my back, well⊠You know the rules.â She clicked her tongue and nodded toward her companion. âCecilia, if you would.â Beaux - the ancient - extended her arm, dragging air from from Rachelâs lungs, her skin decaying, hollowing out and then -Â
âRach, itâs me. Itâs Ronnie.â
Rachelâs body shot up, her phone tucked between the cushion of her couch, her eyes crusted with sleep as she woke gasping for air. Nine o'clock - Christ, sheâd slept five hours - she hadnât had a minute to clean up before Veronica came. They were close enough not to have to look great all the time though, right? Right. So she breathed, brushed the crust off her face, and opened the door. Wrong.
âVP - you look great.â Rachel shifted from foot to foot, reddening as she glanced down at her own outfit - a pair of plaid boxers and Bay Area Derby tank with âAudrenaline Rushâ plastered on it, courtesy of her friend Audrey. Her Motherfucker tattoo felt all too visible on her upper arm, along with the walrus poking up from under her collarbone. Christ. Ronnie would tire and run for the hills one of these days, but please, not today, not today, not today.
She bit her lip. âI uh, kind of crashed after everything.â Color ran to her cheeks, but she switched the light on and stepped aside to let the other in anyway. Her room - a little suite tucked in the Domus Aureaâs top left corner - actually wasnât as messy as sheâd thought once she looked at it. Summer Friends wafted from the Chance record spinning slow on her turntable, and the rest of the space, while cluttered with cacti and geek goods, brought with it the comfort of a hot plate, a coffee table, and a cowhide rug seated in front of a velvet, egg yolk-yellow sofa. âCan I get you something?â Rachel motioned toward her fridge, her hair still tousled from waking, body bent and then straightened with a bottle of nine year Redemption clutched in her hand. She drew forward, brushing a lock of stray hair behind Veronicaâs ear. âYou, uhâŠyou do look great though, like, wow great. Iâm sorry for being a jerk and sleeping in - I shouldâve dressed up for you.â







