Page 5 of On Your Knees

Startled, I turn my head to look at Ethan—and I find his face so close to mine that we could kiss. I don’t know why that bizarre thought occurs to me. I’ve never kissed a man. I’ve never kissed anyone.

“You know who I mean,” Ethan whispers, and somehow I do. He means Mr. Clifford.

I don’t know how to respond, so I just hover there, frozen, until Ethan says, “Get me a fresh drink.”

My eyes drop to his glass. It’s about half full, so it doesn’t really make sense to me, but what would I know? I don’t drink. Everything I’ve tried has been disgusting.

“Same?” I ask.

“I’ll switch to whiskey. The Macallan 18. Neat.”

He holds up the half-full glass for me to take. I’m careful not to touch his hand and he doesn’t touch mine. But it feels like we touch.

I leave with the glass on my tray and make my way to the bar. It’s not actually the standard procedure. I’m supposed to relay the order to an unassigned server, but Ethan told me to do something and I’m going to do it.

When I’ve got the whiskey, I return to him. Somehow, I manage not to run into anyone, which is a miracle because I don’t think I ever take my eyes off Ethan. He, however, is no longer watching me. He’s been drawn into conversation with the woman beside him. Ruby Castle. I don’t know their relationship—mother? aunt? much older sister?—but it looks strained to me. They’re polite, but something feels off.

I don’t like it. It’s none of my business, obviously, and I wouldn’t dream of saying anything, but I really don’t like seeing him talking to her. He’s different with her. Sharper. Almost sly.

When I set the glass down, it thumps. It startles me because I don’t feel like I’m the one doing it. I would never set a glass down like that. In irritation. For attention. It was an accident.

Ethan’s eyes snap to me. They’re dark and unreadable, but a slow smile forms on his lips.

He all but purrs, “Thank you, Levi.”

Why am I breathing so hard?

Why does my body feel so strange?

I swallow it all down.

I nod.

I leave.

I take a bathroom break. The entrée course is the longest, so there’s plenty of time. Too much time actually. I’m agitated. Something feels off. Something feels incomplete.

In the bathroom stall, I close my eyes and try to settle. Things always feel incomplete. That’s just life. Connections are always imaginary. No one cares. No one notices.

I return to the servers’ room, where several dozen people, all dressed like me but better than me, are sipping water or talking in little groups. A few are alone but on their phones.

I find an empty corner and put myself there to wait. I’m tempted to get out my phone and pretend that I’m busy too, but I don’t. I wouldn’t be able to focus.

Like clockwork, the servers leave their conversations to rotate through the ballroom and check the status of drinks and plates. When I go out, Ethan watches me. I’m not making it up. It is reality. But I don’t know how to understand it, and it’s too much. I escape.

Others bus the tables while we collect the desserts from the kitchen, then we sweep out into the ballroom to deliver the final course.

Mr. Clifford pats my arm in what feels like an affectionate way. There’s nothing I can do about it, so I just accept it and walk around the table to deliver Ethan’s chocolate torte.

His nostrils are flared. His knuckles are white.

For some reason, I get that strange feeling in my groin again.

When I set down the plate, Ethan’s fingers touch my wrist like two hot coals. I freeze there under the burning touch, waiting, anticipating, hoping for more. And for some reason, in my mind, more is a sudden, bizarre desire for him to attack me. To leap from his chair and push me down. To pin me to the ground like I have to stay there.

He doesn’t, of course.

He withdraws his hand.