Last Girl Ghosted(91)

No, I think. Home is the place you choose.

But I know better than to argue. And I did choose—in a way.

Instead, I rise and move slowly forward. You look startled, but hold your ground and reach out a hand to me, which I take. Electricity moves from your body to mine with the touch of our fingers.

Your heat. It still calls to me. You pull me in, and not a single part of me resists you. I flow into you and then you are devouring me, your mouth on mine, on my neck, your breath on my collarbone, behind my ear. The tension that has found a home at the base of my skull, in my shoulders, between my eyes, dissolves.

I release myself into the powerful hold of your arms, I know every muscle, every hill and valley; into your kiss, I know every note, every layer. Your hunger moves through me awakening a fierce desire. Your touch is desperate.

You lift me and carry me to the bed, where you ease me down, your weight on top of me.

“I know everything about you,” you say, eyes shining. Your voice is a growl in my ear. “All your dark layers. All your secret selves. I want it all.”

And then we’re only skin, our clothes a careless heap on the floor. I climb on top of you, roam your body with my hands across your broad chest, through the silk of your hair. You never take your eyes off mine, holding me with that gaze.

We go deep and true, make love in wide, slow circles of pleasure until there’s nothing left of either one of us. You’re right. It’s a homecoming.

Later we lie in the dark, all my nerve endings buzzing.

“What happened to them?” I ask.

“Who?”

“Bonnie. Melissa. Mia.”

Their names hang on the air. Were they all here once? In your arms, in your bed? Did you want each of them the way you wanted me? Would your appetites be sated by any willing prey?

But you don’t answer me. The air grows thick.

“You never told me about your ex, not really. The one in college,” he counters.

The memory comes back, violent, leaving me cold. I pull the covers over my bare skin. Another layer pulled back.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“That’s not true though, is it?”

The silence expands all around us. It’s never totally quiet in the city, even with good windows. There’s always street noise, or the rumble of trains beneath you, car horns, someone shouting. Here, silence has a pitch and vibration that fills the darkness.

I guess we’re baring all.

“Jackson. I met him in economics class. He asked for help with an essay, and we started seeing each other.”

Do I hear something, the distant rumble of an engine? Hope surges. Maybe Bailey Kirk is still on my trail, even though I ducked out on him, and my phone is in pieces on the floor. Maybe he’s found a way to follow. Do you hear it, too? Then silence again.

“Was it love? Did you love him?”

“I don’t know,” I answer. “He was the first person I let get close to me—after I lost my family. After leaving the safety of Miss Lovely’s group home.”

“What was it about him?”

I was attracted to his light, to his clean scent, to the ease of someone who has never known hardship or loss. His hair was spun gold, his eyes a rare sea green. Like Jay’s.

“Maybe he looked like my brother a little. He was outdoorsy.”

“He took you back to the woods.”

Yes. We drove out of the city, and hiked trails upstate. I didn’t even know that my body ached for the green, for the whisper of leaves in wind, the birdsong, the smell of the forest floor.

“Yes.”

“Did you love him?” you ask again.

“I’m not sure I knew what love was then. But, yes, maybe. I felt something for him that I hadn’t felt yet. Something more than desire. But I held myself back. Sexually.”

“You were a virgin.”

“That’s right,” I admit. “How do you know?”

“It’s not hard to figure out. After what you endured, I imagine that you wouldn’t give yourself over easily.”

Or at all. Our fooling around had reached a desperate pitch, each of us aching. But I couldn’t give myself to him, show myself that way. I—just couldn’t offer him that part of myself. Later, I’d give it over to people I cared about far less, wanted less. But back then I guarded everything that was precious to me.

“He got drunk one night,” I continue. “We were at some party. Back in his apartment, he got aggressive. Said I’d been teasing him, toying with him. I didn’t even know him in that moment. He was strong, and so angry. He was someone else when he drank.”

“Like your father.” It’s so easy with you. You understand me.

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“We struggled. I thought I was strong, in shape, fast. But he was stronger by far. I was a child in comparison.”

Your heart is beating in your chest; I can feel it pulsing.

“What did you do? Did he rape you?”

“He would have.”

“But.”

“Something primal rose up, a rage I didn’t know lived inside me. It was raw power. I reached out for any weapon, my fingers found this bookend, a geode—sharp and heavy. I hit him with it, in the head. I hit him hard. I thought—”