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Three breaths.
That’s how long he takes to clench his jaw and acquiesce.
I feel it all on my palm. His puffs of air, that hard clamp of his bones, his rough night-time stubble. And from my palm all of it goes down to my belly, making it tug and ache.
It takes us a few minutes to make our way back to the mansion’s service entrance. I enter the code to get access.
The nightlights illuminate the empty hallways. I know I’m courting danger but I couldn’t just leave him there.
Thank God for the sleeping staff.
Zach has enough presence of mind to grab the bannister with one hand whenever it’s time to climb the stairs.
Finally, we’re at Zach’s door. As soon as we enter, he loses all energy and all but face-plants on the floor. Grunting, I push him toward his bed so if he wants to fall, the mattress will be there to break it. When he goes down and crash-lands on the bed, I breathe a sigh of relief and stretch my back.
I cover him with his blanket and then go ahead and take off his dusty, grass-stained boots, too.
As I set them by his bed, I notice his book is lying sprawled much like him, pages open and folded at the ends.
I pick it up and smooth them down. There are pieces of a broken pencil, just a few inches away from the book. I pick them up, as well, rolling them around in my palm.
So weird, these broken pieces.
Did Zach break it? Why would he? Why would anyone?
Just as I’m about to close the book and set aside the ruined pencil, I see something.
His name. On the front page.
It wasn’t there the last time I saw the book. Meaning, he must have written it recently. Probably a few days ago.
But why does it look like it was written years ago and not by him but by someone much, much younger?
Actually, no.
I’m wrong. I’m so fucking wrong. Age has nothing to do with it.
It’s written by someone who mixes up uppercase and lower. Someone who wanted to use cursive but a few letters later, changed their mind and started writing in print.
It’s written by someone who has difficulty writing.
It’s written by him.
The guy who’s sleeping now, but who drunkenly stumbled out to my cottage, and watched the stars from under my window.
I’m dreaming.
Usually, my dreams are of my bike and the endless road while I’m riding away from this hellhole.
But tonight, I smell sugar and I see blue. Both the color and her.
She’s on top of me and her curly, cloud-like hair’s all around us, making a curtain. And then, I roll over and trap her under my body. Hiding her from the world.
She can’t get away now and neither can anyone see her.
She’s safe. Her job’s safe.
But then, she’s laying me down on my bed and covering me up with my blanket, caring for me.
What the fuck?
I feel her taking my shoes off. I want to tell her to get away from me and leave me the fuck alone but I don’t have the energy.
I never should’ve drunk this much. I don’t even drink anymore. Maybe occasionally but nothing like I used to. I don’t know what I was thinking.
Jesus.
If drinking makes me dream of her and these nice, warm things, then I’m quitting tomorrow.
Fuck.
I need a cigarette.
Why am I not smoking? Why am I suffering through headaches and intense cravings when I can take the easy way out?
Oh, right. Because of her.
She wants me to suffer. She wants me to not sleep, to go through withdrawals.
Of all the people on this planet, I had to be an asshole to one girl who wouldn’t take my shit lying down. Who wouldn’t leave me alone.
Fucking excellent, Zach.
Even now, her fingers are in my hair.
They’re running through the strands, caressing my forehead all the way down to my jaw. Everything pulses on my face. My jaw, my cheeks, my teeth, even.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this but… I’m sorry,” she says. “I mean, I think I’m sorry, Zach.”
Everything goes black before I can ask her what she is sorry for.
I know how it all started.
The years of misery and hate.
Or at least, I think I know. I have a theory. And if it’s right, then everything I’ve believed in my entire life will turn out to be a lie.
Okay so, that might be a little too dramatic. But still.
I’m freaking the fuck out.
It’s been twenty-four hours since I saw the drunk version of Zach, followed by his book with his name on it and the broken pencil.
Ever since then, I can’t stop the flood of memories.
Zachariah Benjamin Prince.
There’s something so powerful about his name that things that I had buried inside of me are rushing back to the surface. All of them about St. Patrick’s.
