“I’ll do it for you,” she says with a smile. Carefully, deftly, she unwinds the scrunchie that’s holding your curls in a top-knot. How she does it without pulling, you have no idea—half the time,you can’t even manage that—but she does, and, then, she ruffles a gentle hand through the length of your hair.
“Seriously, I’m so jealous,” she says. “Complete hair goals. Your curls are to die for.”
“Thank you,” you manage.
She hums in response, and situates herself behind your head. She weaves her fingers deep in the thicket of your hair until she reaches your scalp. You can’t help the involuntary shiver that goes through you.
“Our scalps are so sensitive,” she comments. “So many nerve endings and receptors. Yours seems very responsive.”
You close your eyes, willing them to stop watering.
She rubs circles at your temples and the base of your neck, drawing the path with her thumbs. Your hair falls like water over the back of the table. Her fingertips follow the column of your neck, and press on the back of your skull. They feel like brands, like you could physically trace the movement of her ministrations. You can’t tell if she’s looking at you as she palms either side of your jawline. The touch is soothing, almost affectionate, but it’s just making things worse.
Kai loves your hair. Kai played with it that night in the garden shed, at the party, when he was so mad at you, but wanted you so badly. He pulled it from its tie and wrapped it in his fist. He’s never explicitly told you that your hair is his favorite of your features, but you could make an educated guess. Feeling Leya touch it, wondering if Kai’s hands will ever do the same again, is the straw that breaks the back of your proverbial camel. A great, gusting sob erupts from your chest.
“Sterling?” she says softly. Concerned. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” you manage. “I just…”
Leya’s touch moves down your neck to your chest. Her hands linger over your pectorals and then sweep down your arms. You can’t help it at this point if you spasm under her touch. Her hands come to rest on your belly. She rubs in a small circle. Not massaging, just brushing the skin.
“Sometimes massage can trigger an emotional release,” she says. “It has to do with your parasympathetic nervous system. If you have to cry, it’s okay. You wouldn’t be the first person to do it on my table.”
Her serene presence and rational discussion of your nervous system are doingnothingto make you feel like this is okay. Your chest is heaving and threatening to break with the force of the storm inside it.Don’t cry,you yell internally.Come the fuck on!But your body has other ideas. The tears are streaming down your cheeks and falling into your ears, wetting your hair.
“Do you need to talk?” Leya asks. “I know it’s not why I’m here, but I’m willing…”
Those words—herpityfor you—are what finally do you in. Blindly, you sit straight up and swing your legs over the table so abruptly that you are dimly worried it will collapse. You fumble with the sheet at your waist, although exposing your dick couldn’t possibly make the situation any worse. This is so much more embarrassing than nudity, this hysterical crying fit that’s crashing over you like a wave. It grips your stomach in its fist and rings your head like a bell. You double over on yourself, shoulders quaking, andhowlinto your hands. Your fists are full of salt, slippery and wet with saline.
Still, Leya doesn’t leave. She isn’t repelled by your anguish. Out of the corner of your eye, you see her briskly rubbing her oily hands with a towel. Then she’s at your side, her hand on your shoulder.
“It’s okay,” she says, like she’s calming a frightened animal. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”
“It’s not okay,” you insist, in a wave of trembling, snotty, agony. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Sorry?” she repeats, bemused. “You don’t have to be sorry. Please don’t apologize for feeling strong emotions. I don’t care who you are, Sterling. It’s okay to break down sometimes.”
She’s telling you exactly the right thing for the situation, you know, but she doesn’tunderstand.Those phrases—the apologies—bubble from your lips like a torrent. They aren’t meant for her, though. Leya can’t possibly know. She unlocked them, but they don’t belong to her.
It’s abjectly mortifying. You are debilitated by your sorrow, a crying mess doubled over on himself. At any point, she could pull out her phone and shoot a video. Snap a few pics. You would be helpless to stop her. It’s dizzying to think how much such a story would command from the gossip rags.STERLING GRAYSON BREAKS DOWN!
“Shh,” she hums. “Shh. Just let it out, Ster. I’ll stay here all afternoon if I need to.”
Ultimately, it doesn’t take all afternoon. From beginning to end, your tears last for maybe fifteen minutes, which seems like an eternity when you are naked and vulnerable in front of a stranger. The moment you can gather yourself sufficiently, you ask Leya to leave the room and tie your robe back on withshaking hands. Your eyes still clouded by tears, you fumble a few high-denomination bills into her hand and close her fingers, ignoring her protests.
“For your trouble,” you say.
The worst of the storm has passed, but your eyes are still damnably teary when Leya bids you farewell and leaves you alone. There’s a mirror in the room where she was set up, the room that still smells like incense and is dark from the drawn blinds. Your face looks unfamiliar, swollen and red with tears and mucus and sadness.
You cried in front of a stranger. You don’t cry in front ofanyone. Maeve has never seen you cry. Cal has never seen you cry. Your family hasn’t seen it since you were little.
This, you tell your reflection, must be whatrock bottomfeels like.
part iv: the man i love
Chapter Twenty-One
Warriors Cheerleader: I’m Pregnant With GoGo Heller’s Twins
