“So you see,” he whispers over my lips, ghosting the wet, soft flesh over my plump, salty ones. “You can fall out of love if you’re in love with someone like me.”
As he hauls me even closer and fuses his lips with mine, I can only think of one thing.
If I ever fell in love with Thomas Abrams, I’d never fall out of it.
I promised Thomas I wouldn’t regret what happened, and I don’t. I truly, honestly don’t. I don’t regret it, but it’s hard to keep things in perspective when the world around you is booing Hester Prynne for having an affair. They even slapped a scarlet letter A on her chest because of it.
I want to jump and shout, Her husband was playing dead. She was alone. Didn’t she deserve love?
But I can’t, because I want to throw up.
Turns out the theatre people upstairs were practicing a play based on the novel The Scarlet Letter, and tonight they are performing it in the university’s Lincoln Auditorium. Emma and Matt are sitting next to me in red vinyl seats and are engrossed in a whispered conversation. I really don’t know what they’d be talking about that requires such a level of privacy. Dylan isn’t here, because apparently they still haven’t made up, and that makes me feel wretched, as if their fight was my fault.
But isn’t it my fault, or at least the fault of someone like me? Like Emma’s mom who cheated on her dad and destroyed their family?
I look away from them and my gaze falls on a couple sitting two rows down. They are kissing in the darkened theatre. Like a perv, I watch their tender embrace. The guy has his hands buried in the girl’s hair and she is holding on to his shoulders. It looks soft and loving and so unlike what happened between Thomas and me.
But still, it manages to burn up my lust for him.
Now the urge to throw up is even stronger. Suddenly, I stand and make a beeline for the exit. Matt and Emma are busy with themselves so no one notices me slinking away. I search for a bathroom frantically, and throw up whatever I ate in the toilet when I find one.
God, I am Hester Prynne. I am a harlot.
I have a strong urge to hide myself and never show my face again. My bathtub has become my best friend because I’ve spent two nights hidden away inside it. I feel so ashamed. I feel like people will take one look at me and know, as if my skin is glowing scarlet.
I want to go back to yesterday and live there. When Thomas is close, nothing feels wrong. What we did was not shameful. It was survival. I need Thomas right now. I need him to make me feel better.
How ironic is it that the only person who can make this go away is the very one who turned me into this shivery, anxious mess?
________________
Panicking, I sprint through midnight streets, barely paying attention to my surroundings. I reach the Labyrinth, standing tall and shadowy. Once inside, I take the stairs two at a time and keep dashing until I reach Thomas’ office. I turn the knob but it doesn’t give. I try it again, and again and again until I’m rattling the door, pounding on it with my fist.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
I’m hyperventilating. My breaths sound too loud for the tomb of silence.
Where is he? Why isn’t he here?
An illogical thought rises in my head: What if Thomas is gone? What if I never see him again? What if he left like Caleb, without saying goodbye?
My tattoo burns.
I know it’s stupid. Thomas won’t leave. He can’t. He lives here. He’s got a job here. He can’t leave mid-semester, can he? But I’m not listening to my own rationale. All I can feel is the sense of abandonment, the betrayal I felt when I found myself alone in a strange house, packed with drunk-dead bodies.
I can’t…I can’t take it. Not again. I want to fall on my knees and sob but my panic won’t let me. It’s filling me with a bizarre sort of energy that vibrates through my legs. Before I know it, I’m sprinting again.
I hit the same streets, until I’m traveling deep into the residential area where the snow covers the grounds in a white sheen, making it look uninhabited. I don’t slow down until I reach his house. It’s dark, deserted. The naked branches of the tree hovering over the roof sway with the wind, all lonesome-like.
Hiccupping with cold and loss of breath, I walk toward the driveway. My feet drag. The pavement beneath my boots turns into sand, clutching at my heels with sticky fingers. I don’t want to finish this walk, don’t want to see what’s at the end of the road, but I put one foot in front of the other.
I keep my eyes on the house, willing the bricks to show signs of the life contained inside it, but there’s no movement. The windows are as dark as ever. Only the white door shines under the yellow porch light.
Swallowing and breaking a million rules, I become a trespasser once again. I jog across the yard, around the house. I remember the window in the back, through which I saw Thomas with Hadley only a few days ago. So much has changed since then. I have too many secrets now. About Thomas. About myself. About who we are and what we’re capable of.
In my haste to get to the window, I slip on the wet and snowy earth, falling with a yelp. Shit. Tears well in my eyes as I try to stand up, but in the process, I scrape my knees against the pebbles and the icy patches of snow.
I’m brushing the muck off when a force pulls me back and I slam against something hard and warm. Something moving, growling. Something that smells like sweat and chocolate.
Thomas.
He is here. I sag against his heaving chest, relief making me weak and pliable.
Thank God. Thank God. Thank God.
The tips of his fingers dig into my arm and he spins me around to face him. He is sweating. A puff of wintry breath escapes his parted lips as sweat rivers down his forehead. His gorgeous dark hair is hidden under a black hood, but a few strands fall over his forehead, framing his fire-breathing eyes.
I’m so relieved to see him that I smile—a lazy, you just-saved-my-life kind of smile. The anger in his features intensifies.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls, yanking his earbuds out with his other hand. A muted melody wafts around us, the muffled sound of a beat I want to listen to, too. I want to see what kind of music does it for him.
“Layla,” he warns, his face dipping toward me, no doubt to intimidate. I’m so mellow with relief that nothing he can say or do will make me fear him.
“Thomas,” I breathe, feeling giddy and ridiculous. “You weren’t in your office so I thought—”
He shakes me, effectively cutting my speech off. “So you thought what? That you won’t get fucked tonight? Are you that hard up for it?” he bites out as if disgusted.
His disgust hurts me more than anything I could’ve ever imagined. All day I’ve been wracked with guilt and hatred for myself, and honestly, that play didn’t help either. All day I thought Thomas was the only person who’d put me at ease, who’d make me feel better.