“I know,” I tell her, words rough.
It’s the understatement of the century.
I’m not really sure what my plan is. Nothing’s changed, I can’t give her what she wants because the truth won’t cut it, it’s just going to hurt her more and I don’t think she’s going to understand.
I don’t even understand.
I just know I can’t sit here on this stupid ship, so close to her suffering.
It wasn’t easy after I left—but for a few months, I was on an entirely different continent, and then the other side of the country, so it’s not like I could sprint across the stupid decks of this ship, tempted to push children and families and annoying tourists out of the way to get to her the way I do now.
I sprint the entire way back to the stupid suite, and I shout her name the second I open the door.
She doesn’t answer.
“Sloan?” I call again, kicking the door shut behind me.
Nothing.
There are too many rooms for five people in this stupid place, and a staircase in the centre of the living room leading to too many more.
But whatever magnet in me that attached to the one that lives in her when I was twenty still works, and I find her right away.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, twisting and tugging on an iridescent sequin dress not unlike the one Tia wore, the skin across her chest red.
My hands find the doorway, fingers turning white against the ridges.
I hate seeing her like this.
I always have—but it’s worse now, because I made her this way and I can’t kiss anything better.
Sloan takes a shaky inhale, batting at the tears on her cheeks before she starts pulling on the dress again.
It pulls on my restraint, too, because I cross the room, wrap a hand around her wrist, gently tugging it back before I roll my fingers off. “What’s wrong?”
“I feel—it all feels so big and so loud and so out of control.” She stretches her fingers uselessly in space, shifting back and forth on the balls of her feet, her words catching on a sob. “I feel it on my skin. These stupid sequins, they—”
I flash my palms at her in the mirror, hovering above her exposed shoulders, her collarbone and the curve of her chest reflected, scratched and irritated from her constant tugging on the dress.
“May I?” I point towards her shoulders. She blinks at me in the mirror, eyes shining with tears, and she gives me a small nod.
Sloan takes a shuddering inhale when my hands press against her skin, both of my thumbs sweeping in soothing strokes up the side of her neck.
“Do you feel my hands?”
She nods again, but something that looks like an involuntary shake of her head interrupts it. “Yes, but the sequins, this stupid dress—”
“Okay.” I press my thumbs down, rubbing my other fingers along the jut of her collarbone. “You don’t have to wear it. I’m going to unzip it for you.”
She says nothing, but she watches me in the mirror when I lift one hand and I find the top of the zipper, nestled between her shoulder blades.
“Is this alright?”
Sloan swallows, nodding, biting down on her bottom lip.
I focus on the zipper, watching as I tug it down and the teeth separate one by one, revealing more and more slivers of her skin, smooth and glowing from the sun. I’m still standing, but she’s brought me to my knees anyway.
I ignore the lace of her bra, the arch of her spine and swell of her hips, the intricate flowers stitched into underwear I have no business looking at, and I clench my jaw when I tug the dress down into a pool around her feet.
