I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
He continues kissing me while trying to shrug out of the red leather Michael Jackson jacket. He’s struggling, and I’m trying not to laugh because I know it’ll ruin the moment, but I do. He finally gets one arm loose and shakes his other arm, trying to get the jacket to slide down. He looks at me and rolls his eyes. I grab the sleeve and pull it off. I yank off the pink wig and curse myself for wearing leather pants—they’re like a chastity belt. He tries to pull them off seductively, but fails when the leather won’t budge. I laugh again and find a way out of my pants without using oil. He’s kissing me between pulling off his shirt and his sparkly silver socks. Each piece of Michael Jackson’s wardrobe flies from my bed onto the floor.
“Show me your tattoo,” I say, remembering him mentioning it.
He turns over and there are words printed on his side. “It is what it is?” I say, running my finger over the dark blue ink.
“Yep.”
“That’s . . . interesting.”
He smiles, curling me into him, our skin molding together like hot candle wax. In moments we’re fully naked, staring at each other. I cower a little and try to cover myself up, ashamed—not of my body, but of letting someone see it, letting someone into this part of me, the secluded part I keep hidden. His mouth turns up in a half-grin as he pulls a condom out of his wallet. He turns quickly, then lowers himself onto me and continues kissing me until I can’t breathe. It hurts at first. My body’s small and I’m afraid to let him in. But as his hands search everywhere his kisses have, I start to feel that familiar warmth. Our bodies fuse perfectly together, like the fucked-up puzzle finally fits, and its corners are messy and wonderful.
Afterward, we lie in each other’s arms. His sweaty body is curled up next to mine as if he needs me to live. He’s breathing softly into my neck, causing the tiny hairs to twitch.
It’s too much.
46
The walls start closing in on me again and I wonder for the millionth time why I can’t just be happy without a trade involved. I try to move from his grasp, but he pulls me back in, mumbling something sweet I can’t hear because my heartbeats are echoing, so loud in my ears.
The heat starts, the searing blaze in my stomach. It crawls, grasping my blood as it travels up my throat. I don’t want to run. I don’t. I want to stay in his arms and be normal. I struggle away from his grip, and he sits up and curls the sheet over himself. He looks so vulnerable, like I could tip him over with a feather. It’s like he knew I’d do this, but he hoped I wouldn’t. It breaks me. He’s too close. He’s gotten too close.
I toss on jeans and a T-shirt. “I have to . . . I need to go somewhere. I’m sorry,” I say, darting out the door.
“Ellery, wait!” he yells. I can hear his feet stomp on the carpet, like he’s jumped from the bed.
I get in my car and take off, cursing myself for leaving him behind, for running away again. I drive to the one place I know I need to be right now.
The cool air blows hard as the sky opens up for me. The moon’s rays guide me toward the edge of the bridge’s railing. I heave one leg over the cement, followed by the other. A car passes and I duck down. My eyes find the river below. In the dark it’s hard to see the movement of the water, but the rushing makes a constant shhh sound as it flows violently under the bridge.
Another car passes by and I raise my head again, grasping onto the ledge of the railing. All I have to do is let go. There’s no way I’d survive. The water is cold and unpredictable. The icy air blows my hair into my face, coats my throat, and numbs everything inside me. My arms break out in goosebumps. I close my eyes. There’s no miracle to save me this time.
The engine of a car rumbles behind me. I duck again, but the tires scrape on the gravel. Someone’s here. I turn and see Colter’s Escalade.
“Fuck me,” I say into the night.
I hear a door slam and I look at his face. It’s full of pain and anger and something else. He looks tired. Tired of fighting for me. Tired of worrying if I’m going to run every time he says something or does something.
I’m tired, too.
He’s in a grubby white T-shirt, but he left the Michael Jackson coat behind. “What are you doing? Do you even know anymore?”
“No.” I hear my voice. It’s coming out weak and soft. “I thought I could do it. Try to be the real Ellery, not the fake one. I was the real one with you. She was happy. You made her that way.” I’m shivering from the cold and the encounter and him. The clouds have moved in front of the moon, making my shadow disappear—but only for a moment. I know it will come back as soon as the moon does.