Love Turns With Twisted Fates 2 by Caleigh Hernandez Page A

chunks of
mascara in my lashes. I’m dressing for a soccer game not a night on the town.
Can’t say I’ve been to a game before, so I’m not sure what the proper attire
and makeup is for such an event. Diego was no help. “You could where nothing
and you’d be dressed perfectly,” he’d say with that glimmer in his eyes that
says he’s all kinds of serious with a whole lot of ‘come fuck me.’
    Since wearing nothing wasn’t an actual option, I decided on
some khaki capris with a pair of layered spaghetti strapped tank tops in navy
blue and gold underneath one of my many attempts to make rock apparel work for
me. This time it’s a yellow (gold if you will) cropped, over-sized Beatles
t-shirt with the neck cut out so that it hangs off my shoulder. There’s a
little bit of the eighties in all my ensembles, just like my everyday fashion
includes band t-shirts, especially the ones of the re-imagined vintage variety
where scissors, appliques, and creativity turn the often drab into fab.
    I went the less is more route on the makeup with light
eyeliner and a swipe of mascara on the top lashes. The benefit of having short
hair is that it’s usually the easiest part of getting ready. I used my favorite
hair-sculpting product to muss my tiny tresses into spiky peaks.
    Diego and I have been dating for about three weeks now. I’ve
yet to go to any of Diego’s games. His game schedule always conflicts with my
time in the recording studio or some school project. It’s not as if I planned
for this, for us. So, our busy schedules have us squeezing time in when we can.
Most of the time that equals late evenings turned mornings. I’m not
complaining. I can’t get enough of him.
    “Ground control to Major Izzy.”
    I’m laughing my ass off as the words break through my Diego
induced trance. “Okay, Ground Control,” I chuckle out, “how long have you been
standing there and what do you need?” Turning to face a very naked Mazzy
standing in my doorway, I can feel the flush of embarrassment heating my
cheeks. Because we’re practically sisters separated at birth and we’ve been the
best of friends since the first week of freshman year, her toplessness isn’t
the cause of my embarrassment. She’s caught me, yet again, in another love
struck daydream.
    “Wow,” she deadpans, “I never thought I’d see the day that
my Iz daydreamed.”
    “Oh, whatever,” I roll my eyes and return my attention to my
reflection in the full-length mirror.
    “And to think, if you hadn’t said yes to Sebastian, you
would never have met Diego,” she clicks her tongue inside her mouth stepping
further into my room. “I’d say you owe the man a gift basket.”
    “Yessss, I can see it now,” I retort. “’Dear Sebastian,
please accept this gift basket as a token of my appreciation for making it so
that I may cross paths with someone I could bone. Sincerely and forever
grateful, your date from a few weeks ago, Izzy.”
    “Perfect. Now, can I wear your rhinestone Rolling Stones
t-shirt?” That’s my Mazzy. Who am I kidding? That would be me, too, but today,
I’ve got this inexplicable desire to blend with the masses, Izzy-style. The
barely-there t-shirt she wants is hanging on the outside of my closet. I point
in its general direction with my free hand as I apply the tinted lip gloss to
my lips.
    “You really going braless to the game?” I quirk up an
eyebrow at her in the mirror with my question. She shrugs her answer.
    “With the back cut up all pretty-like, I hate to ruin the
vision with an unsightly bra.” Her choice of adjective is laughable. Her
lingerie drawers look like she bought one of everything from Victoria’s Secret and Frederick’s of Hollywood.
    I open the top drawer and grab what looks to be a red
bandage wrap. “Here,” I toss it to her.
    “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”
    “Wrap up your junk,” I laugh out. “It matches the shirt. You
can wrap it under the girls or across them. Just