“I’m slamming your head onto the piano keys. Multiple times. Until that pretty boy face of yours is all smashed in.” My heart flips in my chest. Did she just call me a pretty boy? As in, she thinks my face is pretty? Does Wendy Marin think I’m pretty? “You think I’m pretty?” I ask, trying not to show how fucking elated I am that Wendy Marin just called me pretty. I know it’s a small detail, almost insignificant, but when you spend the last six months thinking the girl you’re head over heels for has never had a single positive thought about you, you start to take every little thing you can
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