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Even then.
Faking is better than being rejected.
I turn off the light and balance on the edge of Dany’s bed, waiting for the house to still.
I can’t keep wishing I belong.
I can’t keep waiting to be seen.
I have to fight and make a place that’s mine.
I have to cut away the past.
Maybe no one else will ever love me.
That’s fine.
I’ll fight and fight and fight until I’m strong enough to love myself.
* * *
Sleep never comes.
At dawn, in a trance, I aim one last pheromone shot into the rashy, irritated skin of my scar-gnarled throat.
Lemon-soaked chemicals leave me choking up bile, but there’s no more time to kill, waste, or linger.
I have to run.
With my loot jammed in a tiny, lip-shaped backpack, and a gun in the waistband of my neon-pink tracksuit, I already look like someone new.
A raccoon-eyed K-Pop groupie, sprinting the walk of shame.
Dany’s leftover sneakers are more than half-a-size too small, but I have no other choice as I tiptoe out of the house.
Breathing echoes from the bedroom across the hall. I slip past, moving ancient-turtle-slow, but the real danger waits in the living room.
Reese lies passed out on the couch with the sports channel on mute.
One leg on the floor, one on the sofa. His T-shirt is peeled up to flash his abs and make room for the hand that dips below his waistband.
Smells like sex and chocolate syrup.
My belly tightens.
When he stirs, I freeze.
One hand sleepily itches his beard while the other moves deeper, unconsciously stroking under his shorts.
“Unh.” His husky grunt hits the backs of my knees.
While I shake, my pheromones prick.
If Reese catches my real scent?
I won’t have to slink away.
He’ll chase me out, knowing I’m a threat.
