“Too late.”
Those glassy eyes bore into me again— blue and honey flames. I loosely cuff his throat, stroking the delicate skin with my thumb.
“What will it take?” I rasp. A tear sticks to his bottom lashes. My forehead comes to rest on his. “What will it take for you to trust me again?”
Another tear takes a leap of faith down his cheek.
“I don’t know if I can.”
His honesty guts me. But I’m not deterred.
“I have proof. At my apartment. Proof that everything I’ve done since you left has been for you. For both of you.”
His Adam’s apple rolls on a swallow. A choked sound escapes his throat. I breathe it in, savoring the agony. Absorbing it. Taking it on as my own. I'm the cause of it, after all.
My lips hover over his; three precious words that I've held close to my chest beg to break free.
“I know you don’t believe me, but I won’t give up on us. Ever. You can push me away. You can fight me until I’m bleeding out.You can deny me, run from me, hate me, break me and I’ll still be here, doing everything I can to make this world a safer, better place for you. Because you’ve suffered enough, baby. It’s time someone takes care of you.”
I silently press the words burning inside me to his lips.
I love you.
He’s shaking. Openly crying.
If I linger, I won’t be able to stop.
Wetness stains my own cheeks as I retreat, the weight of my invisible shackles heavier than ever.
Soon. Soon they’ll be gone and I’ll be free.
We all will.
The Sacrament
Proverbs 7:18 King James Version
Come, let us take our fill of love until the morning: let us solace ourselves with loves.
Fifty-Seven
CADE
Maybe it’s mental illness,but I fuckinglovethe smell of nail polish remover. If that makes me a sociopath or something, whatever. It’s a nostalgic scent that instantly takes me back to Mom’s art studio, where I'd sit for hours on the floor in front of the mini easel she set up for me beside hers while she worked. Before things got bad.There are no rules,she told me once.Paint what you feel.
Fingers snap in front of my unfocused eyes. “We're staying in the present, babe,” Andrea says, holding up two swatch cards lined with different shades of black and purple.
I tilt my head, squinting at the selection. “I was thinking more… neon.”
She hikes the swatches over my head. They crash land into the pedicure basket beside Mae, who yelps in Korean. Andrea snickers.
“What’d she say?” I ask.
“Apparently, I’m a dumb monkey.”
I bark a laugh.
“See, he agrees!”
