Secret Lucidity(36)
“Nobody understands.” My voice trembles. “Not even my closest friends.”
“How could they? They’ve barely even lived yet.”
“I didn’t use to be like this.”
“Like what?”
I gaze up to him, and we’re so close our noses touch. I doubt myself when I look at his perfect face. His only flaw is he’s flawless when I’m so damaged. It’s written across my cheek, it’s written on my stomach, it’s written all over my shredded soul. He couldn’t possibly want this—me—all this baggage of a world crumbling at my feet.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking . . . stop. Stop feeding yourself reasons why you’re not good enough.”
“I’m not.”
“Your eyes are your tell, you know? They make you a terrible liar.” He smirks, crinkling the corners of his eyes before he drops his lips to mine.
He holds me close, his kiss unmoving, and it’s exactly what I need. His skin against mine. A gentle touch not meant for self-gratification, but rather to soothe and console. My body softens into his, and he scoops me entirely into his arms, cradling me against him. Each touch better than the one before, giving me the affection I’ve been aching for.
When our lips finally part, his eyes touch mine, blending blue with green, and a thousand filaments of electricity burst inside my chest.
I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
So much so, that when it’s time for him to take me back to my car, my gut twists in dread. The closer we get to my reality, the more I want to reach out and yank the steering wheel to take me back to our secret paradise. The place where I don’t have to wrap my arms around myself only to pretend it’s the touch of someone else, someone who cares enough to want to comfort me. Because that’s what his touch does. It soothes. If only for a moment, it’s enough.
His hand holds mine as he drives, and before he turns the corner that leads to the entrance of my neighborhood, he brings it to his lips and kisses my knuckles as I watch.
And then the car stops, and I know it would be stupid to linger in this moment—we both know it.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and I worry about what tomorrow will feel like when he isn’t David anymore, but rather, Mr. Andrews.
I nod, hesitant and needy, though I try not to show it.
“Text me later and let me know you’re okay.”
“I will.”
Exchanging his car for mine, I watch him drive away before heading back home myself.
When I walk into the house, I find my mother in the formal dining room, riffling through the liquor hutch. For a second, my heart stops in fear that she knows I never came home last night.
But fear settles into well-known annoyance when she sees me. “I need you to go to the store. We’re out of everything.”
“I just went to the store.”
She finds her bottle, closes the hutch, and turns to me with a hand on her hip. “Well, go again. Jesus, you act like I’m asking you to go to the moon.”
She walks into the kitchen, and I trail behind her. “We need to go get your car first.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t remember?”
She sets the bottle down with a loud clink, lashing out, “Talk in more riddles, why don’t you? As if I have all the time in the world to figure out what the hell you’re trying to elude to.”
“I met William when he brought you home yesterday. You were passed-out drunk.”
She straightens, poising herself with a snide look smeared across her face.
“I hope you remember where he lives, because your car is at his place.”
“How nice of you to involve yourself in my private business, but I can take care of myself.”
Fed up with her crap, I roll my eyes and open the fridge to grab a quick snack. Taking a couple pieces of fruit, I close the door while my mother fiddles with her cell phone. As I make my way upstairs, I can hear her crooning, “William, hi.”
And I just lost my appetite.
I set the fruit on my dresser, plop down on my bed, and turn on the television. This is my life, rotting away to bad Sunday afternoon television. I flip through the channels before landing on some mindless reality show rerun. Halfway through, I give up and decide that a reread of The Hunger Games would be a better alternative.
The doorbell rings when the tributes are being chosen, and I carefully open my door to peek downstairs. William is back and I get a whiff of my mother’s perfume. Before I subject myself to seeing something not even acid would burn from my memory, I step back into my room. When I hear the front door close, I know she won’t be returning any time soon.
I go back to my book, but as I stare at the words, I find myself unable to read. My mind drifts to last night, feeling David’s body pressed against mine, his smell, his taste, waking up in his bed. I close my eyes and relive that moment over and over and over because it was beyond amazing. Goose bumps kiss my skin, and when I open my eyes, I find myself smiling, and it feels so good. I don’t want to think about how this is going to work or worry about when I will be able to be with him again like we were last night. I don’t want the reality of tomorrow to taint the memory of last night.
As the sun gives way to the moon, I grab my phone and text him.
Me: Hey . . .