I’d never felt so loved and so disgusted before. I still don’t understand it. It was awful, but like a dog, I lapped up his attention, his love, because what other choice did I have? He was leaving. He didn’t love me for who I was. My body was the only thing I had left to give and I knew he wouldn’t take it sober, so I tampered with his judgment.
“We ended up in a room, away from the party and…and I kissed him. He, uh, he didn’t respond at first, but then he gave in and…” I take in a quivering breath. “And then I took my clothes off and put his hands on me. I-I could see he was confused and didn’t want to but I straddled his lap and…and yeah. We slept together. I thought if I gave him my virginity, he’d come to love me, but he left the next day.” I blink once and a single tear streams down my cheek. “So I hurt him. He was my best friend, my only friend, and he was my stepbrother. And I forced him to have sex with me.”
That’s all of it. All my ugly parts. All the reasons why I’m a freak. Why I’ve been banished to my tower. Why my own mother hates me. I wonder what she’d do if she found out what I did to Caleb. She knows I love him, but she doesn’t know how many lines I’ve crossed for that love.
Thomas lets go of my wrist and the pressure on my lower body eases. The pain in my pelvis becomes a dull throb.
He is letting me go.
It brings forth more of my tears—salty, useless water that never fixes anything. He’s disgusted by me, and who could blame him? A sob is preparing to escape, but it dies down into a hiccup when I feel his rough hand envelop my jaw.
His magic hands are on me.
This is the third time, and it’s by far the most intimate. His calluses drag across my trembling chin, stabilizing it, keeping it calm. Keeping me calm, like some sort of anti-anxiety drug.
“I’m scared…” I whisper brokenly.
“Of what?”
Of always being this miserable and alone.
I don’t say it because we have come closer now, and I’ve lost my voice. I can see the pores of his skin, the hidden flecks in his irises. His eyes sweep across my face, left and right, up and down.
I palm his hand that cups my cheek. The dusting of hair over his knuckles grazes my skin. It teases my senses, liquefying them, heating them up. I want to suck on his fingers. I want to taste them after he touches me, taste his flesh after it comes in contact with mine.
I’m assaulted by images of him—his fingers—inside me. Inside my needy core. Petting it, soothing it, stroking it. I picture them curling, hooking inside my channel to coax out my juices and then feeding them to me.
The desire is so strong, so alive that I can’t stop myself from nuzzling in his hand. He grows even hazier, covered by a certain mist, sparkling.
Fuck it. I’m doing it. I’m tasting his skin. Just one lick, I promise myself. It won’t hurt anyone.
I turn my face and peek my tongue out. I make contact with the juncture where his fingers meet the palm. The touch is barely existent. It barely registers in this vast, vast universe, but his taste bursts in my mouth—the strongest, most provocative flavor of salt and chocolate.
Belatedly, I realize he’s grown rigid. The haze clears and I’m jarred back into reality. I move away from the desk, out of his reach, but he’s staying still. His hand falls to his side, lax.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, ashamed of myself, ashamed of my lack of impulse control. Kara was right—I need to work on it. I need to do better.
He doesn’t say anything. His speechlessness and his blank face scare me more than his shout would have. I would’ve gladly taken his bark over this silence.
God, I’m so stupid.
“I have to go.”
It’s Saturday and I’m at The Alchemy with Emma, Dylan, and Matt. We find a table in the middle of the room and Emma thumps the big bag of goodies down on it. It’s prompt night for the Labyrinth and she is in charge of producing the prompts.
“Explain to me one more time why you need this giant-ass bag again?” Matt says, taking off his coat and hanging it on the chair as he takes a seat.
Dylan gives him a disdainful look. “She’s got her prompts in it, dumbass.”
Emma smiles in pleasure, her eyes on the bag as she looks for something. It’s adorable how shy she is in front of him when she’s normally so self-assured. Dylan and Emma have gone on a few dates this week. Turns out, Dylan loved the tangerine. I knew it.
“And why can’t you show them a picture or something on your phone?” He bumps his shoulder with mine. “Back me up here, Layla. This freaking bag is a monstrosity.”
“I don’t have a problem with it, actually,” I say. “It’s kind of fun to look at something while writing about it.”
When Emma told me about the Labyrinth’s prompt night, my first reaction was panic. I didn’t think I could be a part of it. I wasn’t prepared. I haven’t even read all the books I own.
Reading has become a vital part of my life, now. In the past week, I’ve only roamed on the street once. I haven’t been to Thomas’ house at all. I stay up late reading. There’s so much to discover, and I’ve been living inside this fog for so long. I feel like time is running out on me. I’ll probably die before reading all the books out there.
I try to calm myself. I’m here to be a part of something greater than me—art—and I don’t have to be perfect. The only thing I should be worried about is seeing Thomas.
It’s been six days since I cried in front of him, told him my ugly love story, and sort of licked his hand, trying to taste him. Since then I’ve seen him all around campus, at Crème and Beans with Nicky, in the corridors at the Labyrinth when Emma dragged me to a play reading. I’ve even seen him in the park, at the bench, the one time I went out at night. He was smoking and battling with himself, as usual, and I was hiding behind the tree.
It’s like he’s everywhere. My secret keeper. The one person who knows what I did.
And he is disgusted by me. He never looks at me. To him, I’m invisible. Somehow, this hurts even more because deep down I thought he could relate to me, but he doesn’t.
I really am a freak of nature.
The front door of the bar opens and in strides Sarah Turner, followed by Professor Masters and Thomas. The snowflakes swirl behind his back as he enters and the door swings shut.
“Hello children,” Professor Masters greets us in a jovial voice as he saunters forward. There is a chorus of chuckles and Hi Professor around the room.
Without paying attention to anyone, Thomas breaks off from the trio and heads for the bar. Sarah throws him an annoyed look but Professor Masters steers her toward their destination.
Thomas orders a drink and sits on the barstool, his long legs straddling the small seat. He takes off his jacket, revealing a plain grey t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders and biceps. His jean-covered thighs bulge as he bounces his right leg with impatience.