by K. Michelle
Moving toward him, I pat his shoulder. “Nice hook, tiger.”
Cohen rolls his eyes, and I finish my retreat up the bleachers, wiping the blood from my mouth over the sleeve of my jacket. Settling in my seat, I pull out my sketchbook and pencil. The led glides across the paper in random, yet methodical lines, and I allow my hand to guide my sketch toward the end goal. I’m so lost in my drawing; I jump when my earbuds are yanked from my ears. Heat from another thigh radiates through their jeans against my own, and no one else would ever be brave enough to do this, and it takes all self-control to hide the effect it has on me.
“The only person that gets to hurt you is me, Little One.”
“Okay, Russo. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Cohen leans toward my ear, the breath of his words tickling their way down my neck. “Be there. Tonight.”
Then as quickly as he arrives, he leaves.
Some deep part of my sick soul loves the secret pieces of him that only I get to see. I’m the only one who knows the Cohen in the woods. And as much as I love those pieces, I hate him.
I hate the way he makes me want to have hope. I hate the way he makes me want him. And I hate the way he makes me think there could be something more for myself. It’s all bullshit, because the moment we aren’t in the woods, he’s back to doing everything in his power to make life hard for me, whether it’s stealing my homework, pulling foolish pranks, or spreading rumors about me. He owns up to it, too. Cohen says he’s trying to make me stronger, which is also absurd. I’m a lost cause, having more issues than a magazine. So, I don’t entertain Cohen’s games, but it isn’t to say I don’t play my own with him, because I do. And I try not to give him the satisfaction of my reactions. He doesn’t deserve them. If Cohen Russo wants through my walls, he can climb over them. I won’t be letting him in the door.
Rehearsals ended, and I drove back to Sally’s for a few hours until the ceremony, which it’s now time for. I’m ready to get this over with, so I can move on with my life and leave this town. When I arrive at school, my feet lead me through the zig-zag pathways down the halls and into the bathroom to change. Keeping my fishtail braid in place, I freshen up my makeup and throw on the gown and cap before heading to the gym, where we all line up to file out to the football field. I pass Cohen on the way to my spot in line without sparing him a look because I know it frustrates him. Shelby’s beside him, and I feel his eyes on my back but refuse to give him my gaze, even if it’s for a second.
He can suck it right now.
It shouldn’t bother me, but I’m blinded with rage every time he lets Shelby hang all over him, which she’s been doing all day, and ever since she’s walked into this high school our junior year. Shelby’s beady eyes set right on him. The difference between her and me? I don’t let the boys of Lake Meadows High School come even remotely close enough to get a taste of me. Hence, the dramatic display on the bleachers today. Except Cohen isn’t mine, nor will he ever be, so my anger is entirely unjustified. But oh boy, is it there, and it’s a simmering pot always on the verge of boiling over.
The senior class walks out to the field, most girls struggling to keep their heels from digging into the grass, save for me and a few others who wore Chucks. Once we’re all sitting in our seats, we wait, listening to numerous amounts of people give us motivating and congratulatory speeches. If I could’ve snuck my headphones in, I would have. Words from people who don’t care about me and will most likely forget about me in the coming days are useless. We stand and line up to hear our names called.
The sun hides behind clouds, and the air is crisp. My lungs take in a big, fresh breath of air as I turn and look around the stadium. Families and friends litter the stands, and a field full of navy-blue caps and gowns line along the field. My eyes search for him on their own accord. His mouth pulls in a rare smile, one I’ve received only a handful of times. But that smile isn’t directed at me. That smile is shining right at Shelby. Long white nails run down his torso, and a fire burns inside my chest as the angry, jealous monster inside me slams on the walls of its cage. My nostrils flare, and I try to control the feelings only Cohen can provoke. My short, black nails dig into my palms as I try to calm the rage.
People only have control over you if you let them.
I lift my chin, and Cohen’s hooded eyes fix on mine, screaming satisfaction and waiting for my response. I raise my right hand and flip him off with a smile of my own, and his lips tug into a new smile.
One that’s for me this time.
The principle calls names, and shortly after they begin, he announces mine, and I walk on stage, nerves wracking my bones. I’m known for staying out of the spotlight, avoiding social gatherings, you name it. So, when all eyes are on me, and everyone is silent following the cheers of other students before me, my body tenses and my cheeks burn against their will. I look back when my eyes clash with Cohen’s, and a smirk draws over his chiseled face, long messy blond hair peeking out from under his graduation cap. His face says, “I’m not going to cheer for you, so get over it.” But his sarcastic smile is what causes my lighthouse to shine. Sally yells over the silent crowd, ringing a cowbell and throwing confetti. Dennis is beside her with a rare, embarrassed smile on his face, hands clapping.
It’s moments like these when I realize I’ll be absolutely fine—because Sally’s in my corner, and it’s all I’ll ever need from here on out. Her fierce blanket of love and protection made from unconditional devotion lies over me, and I’m able to take a deep breath and hold my head high while shaking the hands of a few people and collecting my diploma. Thirty minutes later, the tedious part is over, and the students stand and throw their hats. Not me, I’m sneaking out of the aisle and getting out of here. Sally knows me well and is waiting at the entrance of the stadium. I offer a genuine smile, surprising her even more by wrapping my arms around her. She doesn’t move at first, then her arms embrace me, squeezing me tight.
“I love you, Dessa. I know it’s hard for you to accept love, but I will always have it for you.”
“I love you, too,” I whisper back.
She pulls away, tears in her eyes as she plays with my fishtail braid, and lightly pinches my cheek. “You did it. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you, Sal. Really. Thank you.”
“Let’s get some food. Then we have some shopping to do tomorrow.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
“Okay, don’t push it, lady.”
Laughing, Sal throws her arm around my shoulder, and we leave to get dinner with Dennis, Sal’s husband, who will be joining us. He smiles and congratulates me. You won’t get much more out of him than that, which I appreciate and admire. After we eat, I get home and realize how bittersweet this night was. I felt more loved and supported than I have in my whole life, and I’m leaving in two days. Figures. The few things I own are packed in boxes, ready to go, and I spend the rest of my evening sketching, getting lost in the music, and the lines of my pencil.
Then I feel it. I look at the clock, and it reads almost midnight. Closing my eyes, I try to fight the urge warring within me—another reason I hate him. I’m unable to resist his silent call, and I go every single time. Whenever he’s in the woods, I know it. Like a primal instinct, he’s luring me, and I end up giving in. Giving the universe a dramatic sigh, I throw on my leggings, Vans, and a big sweatshirt before I stuff my bed, lock my door, and climb out my window, which seems a little ridiculous since I’m eighteen in a month. But let’s call this one for old times’ sake.
Taking my time, I walk out and through the woods and arrive about thirty minutes later. Cohen’s back faces me, but we both know I’m here. I step forward and stand next to him, staring at our tree, and his fort in the distance behind it. I tilt my head in his direction to catch tears rolling down his face. My heart drops, because the only thing worse than Cohen not having emotions, is Cohen having emotions.
I’ve never been good at situations like this. I don’t give advice. I don’t know th
e pretty, comforting words to say, and I simply hope my presence is enough. My eyes return to our tree, both of us standing there, saying everything and nothing all at once. Cohen’s pinky grazes mine, and tingles start at the back of my neck, creeping down to my toes. My fingers wrap around Cohen’s, and he clutches to me like a lifeline. But this isn’t him making a move or being romantic. This is him grasping on to me, desperate to survive. I’ve never held someone’s hand before, and my heart beats wildly. Normally, it’s one of two situations. Cohen and I are either content enough in each other’s presence when we’re out here where we don’t speak or can’t stop talking to each other. Arguing over which great poet is better, or who likes Winter more. We may have grazed arms by accident, but that’s it. We never pushed that boundary because we both know there would be no coming back. Both of us could tangibly feel the tension and want between us, but we never say the words out loud. And just as much as we secretly want that with each other, we don’t, because we both know we don’t work. Cohen and I are broken. Only we can put ourselves back together, and we sure as hell won’t let someone else have that responsibility anyway. But that’s my luck and how the universe keeps saying, “Fuck you, Dessa.”
For now, I put my hesitation to the side and hold his hand with just as much pressure, both of us hanging on to something we won’t have any more once I leave. And as much as I hate Cohen, these nights in the woods are one of the reasons I’ve made it to where I am. He’d say the same thing.
His low voice breaks the silence, “Where did you decide?”
“I haven’t.” Lie. I chose USC. I emailed them at dinner.
“Aren’t you going to ask me where I chose?” his confident voice betrays his tears.
“No,” I clip out, and this makes him laugh, but his smile is gone as quickly as it came.
“My mom is dying.” He finally heaves the weight off his chest and into the air between us.
I squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry.” I mean it this time.
He nods. “Tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you.”
I scoff, “Like I would want people knowing I sneak off into the woods to see you. No, thanks.”
He shakes his head and turns to look at me. “I still hate you, Dessa.”
“The feeling is reciprocated, Russo.”
Our eyes lock on to each other, telling secrets our lips are too scared to say.
“You need to go far away, and don’t tell me where you’re going. You’re too good. Especially for me.”
Interesting.
“Really? I’d have to disagree, Cohen.” I lift my head higher, bravery building inside. “I’m trouble. You may not see it now, but I’m more than happy to be the one who haunts your dreams at night and thoughts in the day.”
Cohen’s eyes flame at my words. “Good. I like trouble,” his voice shivers down my body, “But that’s all I’ll let you be. The girl who haunts my dreams, whether it’s day or night.” His hand cups my cheek, and it takes every ounce of energy not to nuzzle into him. I’ve already shown too much of myself, although he has also. He steps closer, and we’re toe to toe, our eyes not looking anywhere else. His long, messy blond hair frames his face. He closes the gap and kisses me. My first kiss, and it’s with the person I love to loathe the most. His hands run up my back, touching every inch of skin until they grip my hair. I do the same, tugging as our mouths open wider, battling against each other. Another game we try to win. I’m clumsy in my movements, but it’s mistaken for anger when his growl echoes through my body. His large frame backs my smaller one against the nearest tree, the prickly bark pressing into my skin. Both hands release from my hair, cupping my face. The anger we started with has replaced with hunger. Neither of us able to get enough, both starving for the taste of each other.
Cohen’s lips separate from mine, but his eyes go nowhere. They touch every part of my face as if he’s seeing me for the first time. My tongue licks my lips, still tasting him. He doesn’t have to ask me out loud, I nod. His hand grabs mine, and he leads me towards the fort. Dim white Christmas lights softly glow above us. His feet slowly stalk towards me, backing me up until my heels run into a pile of pillows. He pulls my sweatshirt over my head, and goosebumps light up and down my arms from the chill in the air. But all I feel is a burning desire to have him, to finally taste the tension building between us for years.
I pull his mouth down to mine again, both of us hurried to take off our clothes. He guides me down, and although it’s not as comfortable as a mattress, it’s still perfect. He pulls a condom from the pocket of his jeans, ripping it open with his mouth.
He’s way too good at that.
A confident smile pulls on my lips to hide the anxiety imploding inside me. Cohen is the reason, the only one to make me nervous or doubt myself. I won’t show him or give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s my first, or that I’m worried because I want this to be good. I want this to be the best Cohen will ever have at the ripe age of eighteen. He pushes into me slowly, and I grab his head to keep it in the crook of my neck. I don’t want him to see that it’s uncomfortable at first. But it doesn’t take long for the ache to turn into a pull deep in my belly, a throb I can’t get close enough to—until his pace builds. My nails dig deep into his back as he stills inside me.
Our heavy breathing echoes throughout the fort, and I bite back a smile as he cleans up, reaching for my clothes. This wasn’t conventional, but neither are we. Once dressed, I turn towards Cohen, expecting him to be wearing a softer look. One that said he was happy—that I made him happy—but my face falls when his body walks halfway out the door, paused for a moment.
Don’t do it. Don’t look back. Just leave if you’re going to leave.
Cohen’s eyes slowly trackback to mine. With a victorious look in his eyes, a deliberately evil smile graces his lips.
“I conquered you, Little One. You made it too easy.”
I thought I couldn’t hate him more than I did.
I was wrong.
“You’ve grown up, Little One.”
I jump at the growl in my ear and turn around to deliver a glare I’ve saved for the not-so-boyish man in front of me. His wavy blond hair now reaches his shoulders, his jaw more refined. Life made his eyes a little harder. Love made his heart a little colder. I don’t let on to my observations and cock my head with a sarcastic smile.
“I did a lot in the last four years, Cohen.”
“Don’t patronize me. I know what you’ve been doing,” Cohen says as he zips his leather jacket.
I roll my eyes, resisting the urge to knee him and run. I booked it out of town after that night in the woods, across the country to good ole Southern California. My grades and several scholarships got me a full ride to USC. Yet here I am back in the crap-hole of a town that is Lake Meadows, or as I call it, the Great Value brand of Seattle.
“I’m sure you do, Russo. I’m sure you do. Now, if you could leave me alone, I have more important things to attend to.”
“Clearly.”
His brows draw together over his blue eyes as he takes in the mess before me. Paint is smeared all over my fingers, and I’m sure my face. Just as I’m about to deliver more sass, I turn around, and he’s gone. Cohen’s disappearing act gives me a flashback to the day in the hall at school, making me wonder if he was ever really here. I take a deep breath to calm the havoc my heart is causing in my chest. Cohen Russo does not scare me. He does not frighten or intimidate me. If anything, he excites me. He starts a fire of thrill inside me that makes the blood pump through my veins to get away from the flames. But I hate him. I loathe him. Why do I hate him? Easy. He’s the only man I’ve ever wanted to love. Now that I think about it, I’m annoyed he already knows the location of my studio.
I went to USC, first to get as far away from here as possible, but I also wanted to learn about a lot of things. I nibbled on nursing, tasted engineering, and even tried marine biology—anything and everything to find my place and where I belong. But I came back to t
he one thing that’s been with me all along. Art. It only took flying across the country to realize it. With a brush in my hand, I can speak my truth in more ways than only words could articulate. It’s mine. I own it. I don’t have to explain it to anyone. It’s up to everyone else to interpret my art, but no one has ever felt my pieces in the way I intended. When they see light, I see dark. When they see hope, I see despair. When they feel sadness, I feel beauty. But the best part about this decade is the ability to upload my babies on Instagram and watch the magic happen.
Money was not easy to come by in college. I went to school full time, painted on the side, and had to dance on the weekends in order to eat and pay bills. I first learned at the age of sixteen with Kylie, one of the girls from my life on the streets. She was two years older than me, got me a fake ID, and taught me how to dance because I was starving. Desperate. She saved me, guided me, then strung herself out on drugs and skipped town. Thankfully, I didn’t attach myself to her, only to what she could do to help me survive. Because of her direction, I made plenty of money to get by working at the club until my painting supplemented the dancing gig. But I busted my ass and now earn enough money to make a living and have a studio to create my work to send off into the world. Opportunities such as this are rare, especially for girls like me. I’m one of the lucky ones.
My niche is to create only one of each piece, never two or three. It wouldn’t be the same. The strokes would be different, and I already poured out whatever emotion felt into the first one. So, if someone wants it, they better be willing to pay the price.