“That’s not what I mean.”
He begins removing the takeout boxes from the bags, slamming them on to the island. “Then what do you mean? You think I’m just a baby serial killer, that I’m going to progress to the lofty heights of cunt artistry and cum calligraphy in the next few years?” He tears open a pack of chopsticks and jabs them in my direction. “You think you’re going to be my next victim, is that it?”
I shift about, willing the nervous churn to stop in the pit of my stomach. “But there have been other victims, Aeron.”
“You’re not bringing that shit up.”
No. Not bringing up the fact that he killed his mother, or that Rachel and Tuija died because of the things we both did. I am implicit in so many of his sins. Bound. Tied. Crucified.
I force out a dry laugh. “We probably should talk about it at some point.”
He shakes steaming noodles on to two plates. “And now is the perfect time?”
“There’s never a perfect time.” There’s never a perfect anything. Perfection is for girls who’ve never had a murderer’s hands between their legs, probing inside, teasing, and delighting in every silent throb.
He thought I’d accepted his faults. Made peace with them. I thought that I had too; that’s what all the expensive therapy with Doctor Yao was for—not that she was aware of Aeron’s many transgressions. She simply helped me through the guilt of “accidentally” shooting my boyfriend, and with it, tightened the bars a little. You can’t build a house out of lies, see, but you can sure as hell build a cage.
Aeron sets down the plate he’s holding and stalks toward me, chopsticks still in one hand. He’s agitated—more so than usual—there’s a stiffness to him, a caution he rarely exhibits. I rise to meet him on heavy legs.
“Tell me what I’m supposed to say,” he demands, standing over me. “I’m all out here. You know what I’ve done; you came to me anyway. I won’t apologize.”
“I’m not asking you to.” I wrap my arms around myself. God, I’m tired of feeling powerless; not that I’d feel any better with a gun in my hand. That’s as much a sign of weakness as anything else. “I just…I have to know.”
“Know what?”
I lower my voice. “About what happened with your mother. Whether you planned it.”
“Oh. I see. That makes a difference, does it? A crime of passion makes everything better?” Now his volume escalates, the veins of his throat growing taut in anger. “My whole fucking life is a crime of passion. There. Are you happy?”
“Oh, come off it. You plan almost everything.”
“You’re not going to forgive me—I get it, I do. But you have to stop thinking that you need to. There’s a fine fucking line between love and hate, Leo. I like the line. We’ll be the line. Okay?”
“Now you’re just avoiding the subject,” I retort. “You haven’t answered the question—”
“And I won’t!” he shouts. “Do you want out of this? Is that what you want?”
“No!” The word tumbles out, splinters, and hits the ground in a streak of gasoline. Then I don’t know whether I have a mouthful of smoke or of him, but I’m falling, plummeting, hitting the floor with all the impact of a bomb going off and the taste in my mouth isn’t stale coffee or bitter metal or silent despair. It’s just him. Him, over me, him, heavy on top of me, him, kissing me like for a moment, he truly panicked that I’d leave.
“No,” I manage in a weaker tone, my cheeks stinging from his stubble. “Never.”