“Perceptions are conditional,” I start, turning to face Dean again. “One can be recognized as beautiful by some, and as not so pretty or even unattractive by others. The same goes for being smart. I may consider myself that, but my brain would be a pitiful excuse for one compared to that of an astrophysicist, for example. You need the affirmation in the form of a compliment to know the person before you perceives you as smart, or beautiful, or even likes your fucked-up personality. Some things are acquired tastes, you know.”
“But you didn’t need him—” Dean points at Atlas with an arched brow and a curled corner of his lips. “—to acknowledge you’re beautiful and smart. You only needed to know if he liked your fucked-up personality.”
My quirkiness is the last thing I want Dean to talk about.
“Can we continue with the game?” I say as I stand, taking the empty cannoli plate and leaving it on the kitchen counter in an attempt to distract from the topic.
“You’re ashamed that you are a freak.”
Am Ia freak?
“Dean! Apologize!” Atlas shouts, already standing.
God, I want to punch Dean in the face, but that would ruin a perfectly nice dinner, wouldn’t it?
“I’m not apologizing about shit! All of us here are freaks.”
Dean keeps calm, but the irritation dancing in his eyes shows that at this particular moment, there’s no shortage of emotions running inside him.
“Never have I ever stabbed someone.” Carter cuts the sizzling, red-hot thread connecting Atlas and Dean, and I use that to pull my boyfriend down to his seat. My feelings don’t need fending.
Their stare-off doesn’t stop once we’re all seated, but the raising of all the shots chips another piece of the tension away.
My glass stays nailed to the table, since stabbing someone is not a merit badge I hold. But all of the guys raising those shots make it seem like some sort of secret fight club I’m missing out on.
“Never have I ever shot someone.” Dean permeates the air with his next question, and it’s one I’ve already revealed the answer to Atlas, but I’m more than anxious to disclose to anyone else.
All glasses fly up once more.All of them?Was that some kind of rite of passage for these guys?
My hand stays on the glass, gripping it tightly.
“It’s okay, love. They’re family.” Atlas rests his hand atop mine and caresses it.
I raise my shot in a cautious manner, searching for judgment where none could be found. Those clandestine actions, admitted freely by everyone, not a shred of reprimand in any form, is a truly freeing sensation. There’s as much relief brewing inside me from sharing as there is fear of giving out my secrets one piece at a time.
“Never have I ever killed someone.” Dean doesn’t wait for anyone else’s turn to shoot his next question, pouring another round of alcohol.
It’s a question no one sane would admit to freely, yet none of them hesitate, raising their shots again.
My lips, pressed in a line, give away my struggle, but letting my emotions shine through is my choice. It’s not like I can’t put on a perfect poker face and let lies pour out of me better than truths coming from a nun at a confession. Yet what would my boyfriendthink of me if he saw how well I can wield that power?
Atlas’s hand rubs gently on my leg again, his form of reassurance not lost on me. The pull of his warmth makes me feel like a marionette, as I take another sip, letting the fire in my throat fight the wildfire in my mind.
How much has Atlas told them about me if not a single face around spells surprise?
“Never have I ever killed more than one person.” Dean keeps digging.
His shot, along with Connor’s and Atlas’s, goes up, waiting to see if I would raise mine, too. I started on this road, so I might as well walk it.
My glass cuts through the air, and I knock back the shot in an attempt to silence my mind, screaming for me to stop what I’m doing before it’s too late. I switch my brain off, for I’ve already crossed that bridge and burned it, with the point of ‘before it’s too late’ already in the past, not even visible in the rearview mirror.
But Dean won’t stop until he knows how deep my corrosion runs in the form of the number of lives taken. I’ll save him the trouble.
“Four. That’s what you wanna know, right? But that’s just a number. It means nothing without the motives behind taking those lives. I had my reasons, as I’m sure all of you had yours.”
Silence settles, while Atlas’s fingers lace through mine, his lips touching the back of my hand.
“It’s getting late, guys. I’ll drive you back to the house,” my boyfriend says as he stands from his seat.
