Page 96 of These Tears

His exhale comes out slowly, with the old instinct to seal every door before I can see through one.

And in the same soft and absolute voice as before, he says, ‘Start reading.’

18

I reach the end of the third chapter and let the book settle on my lap.

He hasn’t touched me once, though the warmth of his breath kept fanning my neck.

Somehow that doesn’t make it feel any better.

‘What did you think about that?’ he murmurs when I turn the page and glare at the next chapter.

‘I think it’s horrible,’ I say, fighting to keep my voice even.

‘I think she was kind.’

‘Which part?’ I turn the page incredulously. ‘Where she tied him to the pipes, where she beat him in this part—’ I tap the line, then flip the pages, ‘—or when she took him by force here?’

I feel his gaze fixed somewhere between the firelight and my nape.

‘Isn’t that how it goes?’

My head snaps towards him, eyes wide.

In that brief, quiet moment, I don’t understand him.

Then I understand too much.

Does he mean the book?

Does he mean sex?

I quell the question. Shove down the next. Breathe. Watch him.

‘No, Elias,’ I whisper, because I don’t even know which part of that sentence to untangle first.

Please let him mean the book.

He hums, keeping his eyes on mine.

The longer he does, the heavier the weight on my chest becomes.

‘What was your first time like?’ he asks simply. Like we’re old friends and there’s no tension between us worthy of therapy.

A rough breath scrapes out of me. I shift, instinctively trying to edge away – but his hand slides in and draws my hips back – and it stays there like a gentle warning.

‘I don’t know you well enough to talk about this,’ I deflect, closing my eyes for a moment and turning my face towards the fire as if that would make me stop thinking about the way his palm is branding me there.

‘What would you like to know?’ he counters too quickly. I turn again, catch his eyes. ‘Ask.’

Asking the thing I want would be dangerous. I don’t want to end up out in the blizzard again. So I pick at safer threads – small details he’s dropped and never let me follow.

I nearly scoff at that. Safe. Nothing about this man is safe. But this is safer than asking why intimacy seems to mean something so different to him.

‘You said you never got to eat a birthday cake. That you had a dog, but not for long.’

He watches me through several drawn-out moments, thumb rubbing over his forefinger against my hip. His mouth opens, closes, then his gaze slips towards the pillow at the edge of the couch.