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“You can talk about it if you want.” He gives my leg a squeeze. My lips feel so sensitive, brimming with intoxicating friction as they rub against my panties. “I’ve heard talking can help… not that I’m the poster child for it or anything.”
He removes his hand, which causes both regret and relief to shiver through me.
The regret is obvious. That comes from the need to have his hand press even firmer against my leg, for him to smooth it up, and up, until he’s pressed against my sex and coaxing the pleasure lying dormant there.
The relief flares messier, a combination of shyness and fear… fear that I’ll do something silly like grab onto his hand and let out a moan, looking at him with lust painted as plainly on my face as my artwork is painted onto my canvases.
“It’s not a big deal,” I murmur, which is a lie. Of course, it’s a big deal. “When I was eleven, my parents used to take me out on their boat. We’d go fishing or just sit out on the water, enjoying a picnic or just lounging in the sun. Sometimes my mom would paint. That’s where I got my love of it, my mom.”
I wait for him to say something, to give me a signal he’s bored of my sob story. Part of me longs for him to interrupt me so I don’t have to continue.
Maybe it’s the madness of all that’s happened this evening, but my emotions feel absurdly close to the surface, not buried deep like I normally prefer.
I glance at him. His jaw tight, but when he looks at me, there’s something like acceptance in his expression.
“There was a storm. It came out of nowhere and it was bad. My dad told me to stay below deck until it was over. I was so scared, such a little coward… I hid down there, crying like a baby until the storm was over. I heard them screaming, Zack… my mom, my dad, I heard them yelling at each other, even over the storm. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe that’s just my mind playing tricks on me.”
I clasp my hands together, willing myself to stop, screaming at myself that he doesn’t care about this, there’s no way he cares about this. But I can’t stop now that I’ve started. It’s like a hydrant has burst inside of me, the water pressure causing it to blast unceasingly.
“They were both killed.” I blink back tears, but they have ideas of their own and flow hotly down my cheeks. “And I did nothing.”
“What were you supposed to do?” Zack growls, bringing the car to a stop outside yet another gleaming upscale apartment building. He turns to me with a stern expression on his face. “You can’t blame yourself, Zoey. Think about what you said to me in your letter. It’s okay.”
“But I could have—”
“What?” His voice whips sharply. “You could’ve stopped the storm? You could’ve magically changed the weather? You were eleven. That was… what? Ten years ago?”
I nod. “I’m twenty now, so almost.”
An unreadable look passes across his face. I wonder if it has anything to do with my age. I remember from his biography on the letter-writing brief that he’s forty-two. Maybe he thinks I’m too young for him.
If that’s the case, he’s alone. I love how much older he is than me, how experienced, how mature. I love his iron-colored hair and the look of seasoned capability in his eyes.
Stomping down in my mind, I cut off the path my thoughts are taking.
It doesn’t matter. He’s not thinking of me in that way.
“I mean it.” He reaches over and places his hand on my shoulder, squeezing so that rioting sensation moves through me, setting my nerves alight like a fireworks display. “It’s a goddamn tragedy. But it’s not your fault.”
I reach up as instinct drives me. It’s a crazy thought, but it’s like my body is driving my movements, forcing me to clasp onto his hand so we’re one step closer to the ultimate goal… to a swollen belly and a life growing inside of me, to a future shared.
But this is a stranger.
I scream the words in my mind, trying to make them matter, trying to make them real. But they feel like a lie, irrelevant, pointless.
Gripping onto his hand, I hold on for support, desperate to believe him.
“It’s hard not to blame myself.”
“I know.” He nods. “I understand that, better than you know. But it’s different, you were a kid, Zoey.”
“Different to what?” I ask, certain I saw something glimmer across his features just then, something unspoken and concealed.
He bites down for a moment, his hand tightening on my shoulder. I think he might share it with me. But then he sighs and removes his hand, nodding to the backseat.
