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After finishing my homework at the dining room table, I stick a bag of popcorn in the microwave and take it up to my room, glancing around at all the pink.
It suddenly feels suffocating, and the housekeeper hasn’t been here in days. There are clothes piled in the corner, outfits I tried on and hated, papers and books cluttering my desk, shoes strewn about the room.
Evidence of an attempt at alleviating stress by reorganizing, and then getting tired of doing it halfway through. The chaos should disorient me, given that I haven’t taken any medication in months, but I suck in a deep breath and find it infinitesimal compared to the chaos reigning in my world as it is.
Instead of succumbing to the urge to fix, I lock onto the one thing in the room that’s as it should be; the pink comforter on the bed is squared on the mattress, tucked in at the end and beneath the pillows.
The image is almost erotic in its perfection, and I crawl under the covers, tear open my bag of popcorn, and pull up YouTube on my phone, searching for heart-wrenching compilations as something close to pure euphoria washes through me.
I don’t hear the doorbell downstairs, nor do I hear the footsteps as they ascend toward my room. By the time the dark figure’s lurking in my doorway, I’m too engrossed in the world of people saying goodbye to their pets to truly care.
“Are you crying?”
Boyd’s voice yanks me from the land of tears, dousing me in reality. I jump at the closeness of his words, how their heat almost caresses my skin, and drop my phone on the bed, shrouding us in darkness. I can make out his shadow, just at the edge of the bed, and it sends a tingle between my thighs.
“This is my bedroom,” I say, clearing the mucus from my throat and wiping my eyes with my sleeve. “I can cry if I want to.”
“Why would you want to?”
“My mom says it’s good for the soul.” I sigh, feeling around on the bed for my phone and turning its flashlight on. He’s standing there, looking haggard; his gray vest is unbuttoned, hanging loosely from his chest as if he’d gotten dressed in a hurry, and there’s a purple ring around his left eye that gives me pause.
“What happened to your eye?” I ask, momentarily forgetting that he told me just last week that he didn’t want anything to do with me, or at least can’t bring himself to, and yet I chase his affection like a lost puppy.
God, I’m pathetic.
But I can’t help it—in the midst of everything else going on, the innate brokenness inside of Boyd Kelly calls out to me. Begs to be repaired. Something isn’t quite right with him, in a different way from the other men in my life.
He doesn’t quite ooze violence. His is buried, hidden beneath the cold, polished exterior he puts on display for everyone else to see.
Except me.
I’ve seen the fire burning behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. Seen it extinguished, too, and what started as a schoolgirl crush feels like it’s developing more into a morbid curiosity. I want to know why Boyd is the way that he is, and then I want to help him.
And if I can fix him, then I won’t need to harp on the things I can’t.
Ignoring me, Boyd sinks to the mattress at my side, kicking the expensive, shiny shoes off his feet and stretching out beside me. “You know, for such a wealthy, shady family, your security here sucks. All I did was jiggle the lock on your front door, and it popped open.”
“It’s an old house.”
“It’s unsafe. Your dad should know better.”
I don’t say anything, the sharp tone of his voice leaving little room to comment. He stares up at the ceiling, moonlight from the balcony window across the room spilling in and illuminating his body in slivers. I roll onto my side and tuck my hands under my head, studying him like I’ve done from afar a million times.
His shoulders are stiff, even pressed against the wooden headboard, his mouth set in a firm line, hands clasped in his lap so tight I can see his knuckles shift from beige to white. For a few moments, neither of us speaks, a serenity sweeping over us I can’t quite explain.
My body should be racked with nerves, lying in bed beside the god of my dreams, but my heart beats at its normal pace, as if this is a regular occurrence. As if I don’t want to climb inside his skeleton and die there.
As if I wouldn’t surrender my virginity to this man right this second, no questions asked.
No regrets. No anxiety.
Just us.
“How come you’re here?” I ask eventually, my eyelids growing heavy in the silence.
“I thought we were celebrating your dad’s birthday.”
“Oh.” My eyelids drift closed, lashes soft against my cheeks. “I think he decided just to take my mom out, instead.”
