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He answers with a picture of a gaping hole in the drywall.

I laugh, then clutch my stomach, wincing. Go back to filling that hole, hole-filler, I order.

Your old catchphrase, he replies.

The reflection of my face in my phone screen is a pitifully vibrant red. Can we not have one nice moment without you reminding the world you’re a top? I demand.

Clever, since you are my world, he shoots back. We have our first sleepover in a couple of weeks. You should be prepared.

I told you I draw the line at sex, I text, scowling.

And I agreed, unless you initiate it. You’ll be so infatuated with me by then that you’ll be begging for my body, guaranteed.

All you’ve guaranteed is that I’m never touching any part of you ever again.

I can almost hear him fake sniffling as he types his next message out. Gutting. Anyway, save that second picture. You have more in common with it than you think.

I retch and nearly launch my phone at the wall. I hate Aaron Beckham with a righteous fury.

That doesn’t stop me from texting him through the day, our gaps in conversation led by his work or my accidental gluten naps that leave me even more fatigued after I wake from them. I don’t tell him I’m sick and in an even worse state now than when I fell. The last thing I need is for him to abandon work again and come flying over while my family is around.

A few days ago, a confrontation with my family would’ve left me determined to never speak to Aaron again. But things are different. For one, my own actions caused the problem—I willingly went to the carnival. It’s not his fault I allowed his persistence to win. And second…

I don’t feel that guilty.

My conversation with Aaron has been nagging me. Despite countering every point he made, certain snippets of conversation keep circulating my ears. My family didn’t complain that the party was ruined. Which means that, though they were under a time crunch, they got things done without me. Mom made that dip. Logan brought the chairs and tables up from the basement. Dad organized the liquor. They managed.

It’s always been about feeling indebted. But Aaron is implying that I’m not. That whatever is outside my control isn’t something I need to make up for. If I ask my parents their thoughts, they’ll tell me I’m not a burden and that I owe them nothing. But if that’s the case, why do they let me shoulder everything?

I’m starting to see through the bramble cluttering the pathway that led to me moving in with Aaron. I’m not going to willingly abandon my family.

But things are beginning to make more sense.

20

Summers are busy for the Beckhams, so I don’t see Aaron nearly as much as I want to over the next couple of weeks. We manage to sneak in two more dates. One is at the aquarium, where I intently read every placard while Aaron presses his face to the glass tanks in awe. We attend a baseball game in the city and eat a hearty lunch beforehand so I’ll be too stuffed to feel jealous of everyone eating stadium food. Neither of us cares about sports, but the thing about baseball stadiums is that the vibes are great, and it’s overcast, so the sun doesn’t cook us alive.

I’m steadily recovering more memories, though they’re coming in exasperatingly short flashes. We walk through an underwater glass tunnel at the aquarium, and I have a sudden memory of being here completely alone with him, in which he kissed me vigorously. He can’t do that this time—a family of four is behind us, and we don’t want to scar them.

At the stadium, I close my eyes and lean against Aaron’s shoulder, when I feel heavy rain crashing down around us. I hear screams of delight and shock, the wet sound of sneakers slapping against concrete as people rush for cover, and the crinkling of ponchos. Aaron laughs wildly while I seize his wrist and yank so we can find space under the canopy.

When I open my eyes, the itchy feeling of wet clothes disappears, the clouds are puffy, and the shouting evaporates.

It’s not just memories with Aaron that are trickling back. As I wake one morning, I have a hazy vision of being at the American Innovation Museum, where I hear Amy’s muffled voice behind me while I study a steam engine lubricator. The next day, I remember peering out at a golf course in late summer from the passenger seat of a cart while my family battles a par 5. Later, I have a memory of sitting at a massive table at Aunt Lydia’s, an empty plate in front of me during a holiday dinner.

Most of the memories involve him, though. Quiet, casual moments. His head is in my lap, and he’s napping, his hand clutching my knee. He’s washing my hair in the shower and teasing me for nodding off while standing up. We’re having a picnic in the backyard and battling flies. His tongue is trailing up my thigh, and his excessively long fingers are ringing my knees, holding them open around his shoulders. If we’re ever speaking in the flashes, our voices are warbled, like I’m hearing them through a brick wall.

I feel better as the days pass. Sort of. Sometimes my paranoia or exhaustion overtakes me, and I find myself postponing eating until I skip a meal altogether. My bruises from the car accident finally fade, and my unending frailness follows suit. My parents have been making an effort to expand on some of the memories coming back to me, filling in missing details or giving me context so I don’t feel as disoriented. Their work hours haven’t changed, but they’ve been in contact with me more frequently about how I’m feeling, and the number of errands they ask me to run has nearly halved.

Aaron’s busy schedule doesn’t stop him from coming over to harass me every other night by playing the drums against my window. Eventually, I just leave it unlocked so he can invade whenever he wants. His first step is to always pretend like he’s my personal masseuse. He starts at my fingers, and I ramble about this or that because I can’t stand lying there quietly and letting him massage me like I’m royalty. Sometimes he responds. Sometimes he’s evil and sits in silence, smirking at my attempt to disturb the air.

The night always devolves into kissing. I’m coming to understand his preferences. Apparently, he likes to…um. Do the work? As in, he prefers when I’m lying there, my legs around his hips and my arms around his neck. Whenever I start feeling bad about how much more he’s moving than me, I try rolling him over to take the weight off his arms. He resists every time. If I’m stubborn, he grabs my hands and pins them over my head. Sometimes I pretend I want to roll him just so he’ll stop me.

It’s sick. I’m sick.

Aaron is unbearably mindful. Even when he restrains my hands, he rubs them lightly, keeping the blood and warmth circulating. Even when I don’t speak, he can tell when I’m overstimulated because he’s so tuned in to the tightness of my muscles. He adjusts his strength to match my level of energy—if I’m lethargic or lightheaded, he’s gentler, and keeps more weight off my body. If I’m having a good day, he’s faster, more unforgiving with all his fiddling.

I can’t resist the intensity of his eyes. The heat of his touch. The smoothness of his skin. He’s a handyman—shouldn’t he be more rugged and hairy and rough around the edges? His jaw is so clean I can barely feel stubble, and his arms, back, and chest are silky smooth. The only indications of his profession are the calluses on his palms from working with tools and wood.