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I can't pick them out from here. One must be Kit's. He's not here.
His side of the bed is warm, but he's not here.
I'm already thinking in terms of his and my side of the bed. I'm getting ahead of myself. Even if this is more.
My dress is downstairs. I'm in Kit's t-shirt and boxers. I'm not sure why he has boxers if he goes commando, but I'm thankful for the outfit.
I peek my head through the door enough to make out the voices.
That's Mal.
Fuck.
I scan the first floor as I sneak to the bathroom. My dress is still there, on the floor in the kitchen.
The mirror mocks my wishes to keep this hidden.
I have hickeys.
Several hickeys.
Otherwise, I don't look different. It's not as if the halo above my head is gone. There's nothing to mark my no longer a virgin status. I shift my weight and cop a few Instagram worthy poses. It's not in the way I move either.
Is it really possible that I'm the same?
I don't feel the same.
I feel awake, adult, alive.
But I'm not sure it's from the sex as much as it's from Kit.
I really, really like him.
Maybe more.
But then I've got no idea what more feels like. I didn't love any of my high school boyfriends. I've never loved anyone who wasn't family.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, and arrange my hair to best cover the purple bruises on my neck. It does the trick. Almost.
After another five minute trying and failing to turn almost into absolutely, I make my way down the stairs.
The room falls silent as Mal takes me in. Recognition flares in his eyes.
He knows.
If I don't look different, how does he know?
Mal isn't stupid and I'm wearing Kit's clothes.
How could he not know?
I bite my tongue as I attempt an effortless calm.
Mal looks at me. "Let's talk."
"I don't have anything to say to you." I roll my shoulders back. I'm staying strong here. Even if Mal knows.
Kit shoots me a yes you do look.
