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“Another first for us,” I say, stepping under the spray of hot water. She backs against the wall, out of the spray, and lifts her foot onto the edge of the tub, a resigned expression on her face.
I move forward, awkwardly pushing my hips against hers. The position is not ideal, and my feet slip when I try to get leverage. I brace them and push up into her, spluttering as I thrust into her and my face bobs straight into a full spray of water.
“Fuck,” I manage, turning my face from the water. She reaches up and adjusts the showerhead, making the water sluice down my pale chest. I drive into her again. At least it’s easy when she’s already wet from her period. Looking down, the blood reminds me of our first time—and a lot of times since. Now that I know she bleeds almost every time, I don’t even know if she was really a virgin the first time. She felt like one, but it’s not like I had anything to compare it to. Now that I do, I’m not sure. It was different enough to make me believe, in the moments I want to believe, that she was telling the truth. But maybe it only felt different to me because I’d never done it before.
“Rylan,” she gasps, and I look up to see an expression I haven’t seen on her face before. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips slightly parted, her pupils dilated with desire. “Kiss me.”
I lean in automatically, but the column of spray stops me and brings me back to my senses. “No,” I say, slipping an arm around her neck and bringing her forward, so her face is under the water. She spits and struggles, and when her body tenses, her pussy grips my cock hard enough to make me cum. I give a few quick, hard thrusts, then shudder against her as I finish. Only then do I let her lean back against the wall. She stands there coughing and panting while I let the spray clean the blood off me before reaching behind her to shut off the water.
“Come on,” I say. “It’s time to get you some food.”
We drive in silence to the unfortunately named Boehner’s Burgers and sit at one of the old wooden picnic tables. I buy two baskets of burgers and fries and set them between us, along with a shake for me and the diet soda she asked for.
“Since when do you drink diet?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Gotta stay on top of the pyramid.”
“You coming back to school soon?”
“Next week,” she says, setting down her half-eaten burger.
I grab her hand. “When did you do this?” I demand, fury pulsing in my temples.
“What?” she asks, her eyes going wide as she glances around, like she’s afraid someone will see us together, even though everyone already knows she’s mine. A big group of about ten kids from school occupies another table, and I glare at them, trying to find the guy she’s afraid will see us holding hands.
“Your nails,” I grit out. “You said you’d only left your room to go to the bathroom.”
“Let go,” she hisses. “You’re hurting me.”
“Good,” I say, squeezing harder. “You lied to me. That hurts me. You deserve to hurt in return.”
“I didn’t say I’d never gone anywhere else,” she grits out, her breath coming short as she breathes through the pain. She’d never cry out, bring attention from the other occupied table. I never quite understood that, why abuse is more shameful for the victim than the abuser. But then, I never understood why someone would want to hurt their partner until I started doing it.
“Who the fuck are you getting all done up for?” I demand. “Where have you been going while I’m at school every day?”
I can’t be there to watch through her window with my binoculars when she’s home. I need her back at school so I know what she’s doing, if she’s lying to me.
“Nowhere,” she says, wincing but refusing to pull her hand away and cause a scene. Her fingertips have turned purple from the strength of my grip. “My mom took us all to get them done. She was trying to make us feel better.”
“You don’t deserve to feel better,” I say, shoving her hand back at her.
She hugs it to her chest, her food forgotten. Tears shine in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them spill. She just stares at me with big, hurt eyes, like a kicked puppy.
“No one made me feel better when my dad shot himself,” I snap at her, fury pounding inside my skull. “No one took me out to get burgers or get my fucking nails done. You don’t deserve that, either. You deserve to know how it feels when someone you love takes their life and your entire world turns into a series of explosions that detonate one after another until you can’t tell up from down.”
“What?” she asks, swallowing hard.
“You deserve to lose your house, and your family, and your dad,” I snarl. “You deserve to have seen your brother jump off that bridge, to have heard his neck snap. You deserve to suffer, to lose your mom, to go into foster care and go to sleep every night in fear, knowing something could happen to your sisters, and you’d never know. Then you’d know a quarter of the shit I’ve lived through.”
“I know,” she whispers, staring at the table.
“You don’t know,” I say flatly. “You’ll never know. Because even if you had to go through all the shit I have, you’d never get to feel what it’s like to know the reason for all of it is the person you love.”
Tears swim in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“You may know what it’s like to lose someone you love, and think what if you’d done something differently, and what if you could have saved him. The difference is, you’re the reason I lost my dad. I’m not the reason you lost your brother.”
She nods, dropping her gaze as a tear slides down her cheek. “I know.”
