Ha! I fist pump internally. Joke’s on him. I’m going to get up before the birds and be gone before he’s even awake. I can’t ever escape a confrontation with him, but I can make it easier to stomach. Staring into his disappointed eyes, consternation painted across his face, as his booming voice reverberates around the house, it’s essentially my idea of hell.
At least over the phone I can turn the volume down, and I don’t have to look at his sad eyes.
I strip and contemplate falling into bed butt-naked. But with Dad home, I don’t want to risk things getting even more awkward between us. We share a bathroom, and God knows I’ll need to tinkle during the night and forget he’s home.
I put on an oversized graphic tee and some pj pants I left hanging over the chair at the foot of the bed and snuggle under my blankets. My phone chimes from across the room. I roll my eyes and turn over.
I don’t need it.
I don’t.
Except, what if it’s Ares. What if our kiss is still making his lips tingle?
I throw back the covers with a dramatic sigh. It’s probably a goodnight message from Dad to remind me he loves me. He sometimes seems to forget about that when he’s hassling me about things, but texts me after the fact like he’s trying to remind both of us.
I should probably reassure him that I haven’t climbed out the window and run away, leaving my phone in my bedroom for him to track. I’d love to say that hasn’t happened, either, but before Mom died, I ran away from home twice. Both times I was intent on going to live with Aunt Maureen, both times my parents found me at the end of the road trying to figure out which way I needed to go to get to Illinois.
Geography has never been my strong suit.
The phone vibrates again as I pick it up. The first message was from an unknown number that makes my heart race. If I could pull it out of my chest, wag my finger at it and give it a stern talking to, I would.
The new text is from Dad. As expected, it’s telling me he loves me and wishing me goodnight. I reply, telling him I love him, too. Because despite all his misdirected anger, and his overprotectiveness, I really do.
I climb back into bed and hover my thumb over the other new message. I knew in my gut it was from Ares before I even picked up the phone, but seeing him calling me his treasure in Spanish on the screen makes me blush all over.
I shove my phone under the blankets.
His.
My stomach flips, and my heart flutters like the wings of a hummingbird flap against my ribcage. I need to stop this freight train right now. I’m trying to convince myself that it’s not Ares, specifically. It’s the fact that someone, anyone, is paying any romantic attention to me.
All I’ve wanted, for the longest time, is for someone to look at me and see me, toreallysee me, not the scars on my face, not my trauma, but me. He kissed me like I was a regular girl, and a seed of hope bloomed to life inside my soul. My world stopped turning.
Maybe I’m not broken beyond love after all.
Maybe there is someone out there who could be with me despite my injuries and twisted skin. My entire being aches to have someone’s arms wrapped around me.
My phone buzzes on my chest. I sniff, my face wet from tears. I risk looking at my screen— it’s Ares again. I will myself to ignore it, to tuck the phone under my pillow, but the lure of the delicious Dominican is too strong. Curiosity burns my insides. I need to know what he’s saying to me.
My screen is blurry; the tears won’t stop. Blinking seems to make it all worse, so I let them fall. I turn into my pillow and cry until my throat is raw and my chest aches. This isn’t new. My pillow is intimately acquainted with the taste of my tears.
I don’t know how long I’ve cried by the time I purge my system, but my pillow is so wet I need to flip it over.
It’s probably too late to reply to Ares, but I open his messages. The first one asks me to let him know I got home okay, and I melt. My lip quivers, my eyes well, and my fragile heart threatens to crack right down the middle.
The second one asks if I got the first one, and if I regretted letting him kiss me. His vulnerability strikes in my chest. From everything I’ve read about him and seen with my own two eyes, I bet he doesn’t expose this piece of himself very often.
So why me? I don’t understand it, but I like it.
Eloise: I’m sorry if this wakes you. I’m home safe and sound.
I pause. I don’t want to lie to him, but the thought of telling him the truth feels even worse.
Eloise: I was talking to my dad.
I cringe when I hit send. I hate lying. I suck at it and have a terrible poker face.
Ares: You can wake me any time. Regrets?
