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She wants answers. And while I’m sitting in my Rover, waiting on Franco to get me the drug dealer’s address, I make a decision.
I haven’t been to our liquor store since the night my mother died. Some monsters are better left under the bed. But going back there—with Makenna—is the only way to do this. Words aren’t enough to make her understand. She deserves the right to make her choice with open eyes. And I will live with that choice, regardless of what it is.
22
Makenna
Why did I tell him?
Why couldn’t I leave things the way they were?
Why did I push?
I asked too many questions. I went too far.
I told him I’m in love with him.
I could’ve held it in, kept it to myself.
But we can’t keep running on secrets and blind faith. It would’ve festered, burned, spread like weeds and vines. The kind that slither up walls and hide the beauty beneath.
Years of tension, of waiting, wondering. Months of exploring, of seeking, finding. All boiled down to a single shred of truth.
I asked.
He didn’t answer.
I confessed.
He didn’t reply.
Silent tears trail across my face and onto my pillow.
My heart doesn’t have the capacity for any more pain. My mind doesn’t have the strength for heartache. My body doesn’t have the energy to fight past the hurt.
This is what I think about as I lie in bed, tucked underneath the comforter, clinging to my pillow.
I fall asleep wondering where he is, missing his touch, hoping that he’ll show up at my door and knowing that it just might break me if he doesn’t.
I wake to the feel of the mattress shifting under someone’s weight, and I know immediately from his scent that it’s Callisto. He slides in behind me, heat radiating from his body. I focus on the steady rhythm of my own breaths as he curls an arm around me. My breath hitches, and my heart thunders in my chest. His palm slides slowly, tentatively over my stomach, tracing gently over the bandage I placed on my cut. It was minor, enough broken skin to bleed but not enough for stitches. He inhales a deep breath and exhales a quiet curse,“Fuck.”If he knows I’m awake, he isn’t letting it show.
He remains silent as his hand moves to my hip, his fingertips a whisper across my skin. He presses a gentle kiss on the back of my shoulder as his thumb strokes patterns on my hip bone. Another kiss. This one lingers, a silent plea for forgiveness.
Tears sting my eyes, and I quickly blink them away.
“Makenna,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.
One word. My name. Hovering between us, threading the silence, closing the distance, stringing us back together.
He’s here.
He came back. My truth didn’t push him away.
A strangled sob forces its way from my throat, and Callisto responds by pulling my body against the warmth of his own. He buries his face in the curve of my neck, and I want to speak, tell him it’s okay, that I can wait for his truth. Then, his chest heaves against my back. His breath shudders on my skin—a raw, rare moment of vulnerability.
He’s every bit as broken as I am.
His grip on my hip tightens. Heat pulses through me, blazing a path from his fingertips to my core. He’s naked, and hard against my back.
