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Thumbs hooked into my panties and peeled them off. They fell down my legs. I was naked, but the only move Patrick made was to steady me. I leaned against his bulk as I stepped into fresh underwear and got a pair of candy-cane-printed pajamas out of my dresser.
“Haven’t seen this before.” He ran a finger along the collar of my pajama top. “Someone likes sugar.”
I pulled on rainbow fuzzy socks and stepped into the fleecy bottoms. All I cared about was getting warm. “I never bring PJs to your room.”
He helped me, his touch gentle. I felt like I was in the twilight zone.
When we finished buttoning my top, his head turned, and he stiffened abruptly. Then he walked with measured steps to my desk.
“What?” I began. “…Oh.”
I’d been in a hurry this morning. Below the sketch Patrick had made of me, which I’d pinned above my desk, an avalanche of pills spilled onto my laptop. My middle drawer was turned upside down. Candy littered the floor, along with pens, pencils, and the cocktail napkin Patrick had pressed into my hand in November.
Little lies.
With the twinkle lights the only illumination, my desk was almost in the dark. Almost.
“I know,” I tried to joke. “It looks like I broke into my own room.”
He folded his powerful arms over his chest. He hadn’t taken off his leather jacket, giving the impression that he was about to flee any second.
One step at a time, still lightheaded, I crossed the room to stand in front of him. “Don’t judge me. I have a lot on my plate. Sometimes I need a boost.”
In the dim golden light, his pupils almost swallowed the pale rings of his eyes. “Why do you have to do so much?”
“Because,” I said helplessly. “I want freedom. I’m trying to save for the first time in my life. I want to cover my rent next year. I want a good internship this summer, I want to get decent grades, I want to contribute to my sister’s wedding. I just…want to feel in control. Okay?” I blew out a breath. “I’m not addicted. I can —”
“…Stop anytime,” he finished with me.
“You don't get it, sobriety boy.”
“No, Christina. I do.” He touched my face, the tips of his fingers on my cheek. “You feel like you're better with it and not good enough without it. You think you can give it up whenever you want. But why would you? Why would you give up something that's there when you need it, something you can count on, maybe the only thing, when you think there’s no one and nothing else? Is that how it feels?”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
“You don't need it, Christina.” His voice sounded hoarse. Like I was moving through water, I lifted my hands and cupped his face.
He cleared his throat. “You still want a bedtime story?” His tone was back to normal — almost.
I dropped my hands and stepped back. Shrugging off his jacket, he tossed it on my chair with his sweater.
“Here.” I went to my shelves, found the book I wanted, and handed it to Patrick. He leafed through it while I sat on the bed, stripping off my false eyelashes and wiping away the makeup from the game.
“So that’s what you look like.” He cocked an eyebrow at me over the book. At least the lights were low. He’d never seen me bare-faced. I looked younger and softer, my cheeks rounder without the benefit of bronzer. At his place, I slept in mascara and lipstick and dealt with my skin when I got home each morning.
“I guess.” I scrubbed at our school logo below my eye. “I feel more like myself with makeup on.”
He grinned. “You’re cute either way.”
“Oh? I thought I was beautiful. Didn’t you make me say that in your bed a few weeks ago?”
“You are.”
Our gaze caught. I looked away first.
As he pulled my desk chair over to the bed, I curled up under the blankets, a fresh wave of pain making my head throb. “What are you doing so far away?”
He let out a sound — half sigh, half laugh — and sat down on the bed.
