by Nicci Harris
As we walk into his apartment, an unwelcome shudder niggles at my belly. Konnor’s expectations for the next step could definitely conflict with mine. I want to be with him. I always have. But now . . . I feel ready. I’m ready to tell him everything he deserves to know and suffer the consequences. The rest is up to him because I don’t have the willpower to stay away from him any longer. If once he’s privy to everything and he still wants me, then I’m the luckiest girl in the world and won’t ever walk away from him again.
But I know I’m not ready to have sex with him, not after Erik, not after realising how much that should mean. But if I don’t then I may lose him, and the thought of that sits heavy in my heart. I know he’s a very sexual person; girls throw themselves at him and people talk openly about his promiscuity. But I just can’t take that step with him until I’m sure it’s for the right reasons. I don’t want any doubt. I don’t want it to feel like payment for his love. I hope he can wait for me, and I hope he doesn’t think I don’t want him. I do.
But first, I need to tell him the truth, every dirty aspect of it. About my father, about me, and about what I did to him so many years ago that changed his life forever. Then we can release the secrets and horrors of that life to the wind, and be us, as we are now.
I glance around his apartment. It's bare. This only furthers my sudden unease.
“Where is your alarm clock?” I ask, staring around his nearly empty apartment.
“That alarm clock was a jackarse, so I broke it. Presenting me with your letter was the last straw.” I tilt my head at him and smile. He shrugs. “It had plenty of warnings.”
“It’s an inanimate object, Konnor,” I say, with a chuckle.
“Oh, trust me, that didn’t stop it from bossing me around every damn day. I did us both a favour. It didn’t have very nice things to say about you, either.”
“And everything else?” I spin around and tilt my head at him, gesturing towards the bare room.
He takes a deep breath and lowers his chin, a flush of shame spread across his cheeks. “Broke a few other things too, Duch. Buuuuuut, I have a present for you.” He wanders over to the cupboard and swings open the door, then he squats slightly and reaches inside. Turning to grin at me mischievously, he pulls out a huge piece of canvas. Every part of me brightens, because I know exactly what it is.
The painting.
I jig in place like a little kid, waiting for its unveiling. Watching my expression intently, he brings it over and sits it on the kitchen bench. He pulls back the paper sheet and studies me while my eyes take it all in, rolling over every colour and shape. As I study it, my breath catches in my throat and I press my fingers to my smile.
It’s beautiful.
The figures are vaguely prominent, but they are still visible to anyone really looking. Each human stencil is distinguishable within a different colour: Drake is mostly purple, Elise is orange, Jaxon is primarily red, and Konnor and I are in the centre, barely coloured at all, just defined by outlines of red and pink. Like a heart. Our white silhouettes explode with these two colours, whereas the rest of the canvas is coated wholly. My heart aches because it is so ludicrously unambiguous that we are in love with each other right there, in that moment.
In our life, in time... and in space.
I’m unable to take my eyes off it, unable to comprehend how we could look so in love. In love before we knew we were Deakon and Liz, when we were just Konnor and Blesk. We barely knew each other. Nevertheless, it is ridiculously clear we’re crazy about each other even then.
I swallow pass the guilt I have about what I just put him through.
“I… I love it.”
Placing the painting flat on the kitchen bench, he grabs his phone and activates the stereo with it. Joshua Radin’s voice sounds through the speakers with humble acoustic beauty. A song I know begins to play: “Someone Else’s Life.”
“I’m glad,” he whispers. “I love it, too.”
I am feeling so much. Too much. He reaches for my elbow and stops me from ducking away. He envelops me in his arms, knowing exactly what I truly need—what I don’t even know I need. I let out a small sigh when I feel his body against mine. His heart’s beat is running rampant, like mine. He lowers his head, nestling it sweetly beside my cheek.
“I love you, Blesk,” he says into my ear. His words hit me like an electric shock. This time, I know he really does. “I can’t write or play the guitar, Duch, but this song reminds me of us.” He feeds his fingers through mine and begins to dance with me, lowering his hand to the small of my back and dances with me.
“Sing while I dance, Kon. Sing, and whistle.”
“I wish I could dance with you Liz, like a walzz.”
“It is called a waltz. With a T."
“Yeah, a waltz. But I would be in charge because I’m the boy.”
“Na-ah! I’d be in charge! Watch me, watch me twirl. See . . . Spin in your cage, spin like this. It’s fun.”
“You’re a terrible dancer, Liz.”
“You’re a terrible singer, Kon.”
He hums the tune with a silly grin on his face and sings a few of the lyrics to me, “Showing you all the ways I’ve grown . . .”
Konnor chuckles at me as I sniffle and try to hide my glistening eyes, ashamed I’m tearing up again. I’m just so darn sick of crying all the time; however, if I had to choose between either never crying again or crying both these tears and the ones brought on by adversity, I would choose to cry so I could have moments like this. He steals kisses whenever he can, wrestling with my attempts to hide my flushed face.
The wine has warmed my cheeks, and his unwavering attention warms every other part of me. He cradles me close to him, rocking me, swaying and dancing -- he moves with confidence. I giggle as he steals more kisses from me, from my neck, my jaw, and my shoulders. “You’re a terrible dancer,” he whispers with a chortle.
My tongue pushes through the middle of my teeth as I smile up at him. “You’re a terrible singer.”
✽✽✽
It is after midnight now and we are both a little drunk, lying on his bare mattress, facing each other as we’ve done before. We’re sharing a pillow, and his emerald irises are only inches away, every freckle within them visible. He gazes at me, eyes bouncing around my face, almost as if he’s mapping my features to a grid in his mind.
“I’ve spent a million nights thinking about touching you,” he sighs, “thinking about touching more than your finger.” He places his index finger tenderly on my shoulder and I shiver beneath it, the warmth from that one body part radiating to my core. He traces slowly from my collarbone, down, down to the crease in my elbow, along my forearm, and into the centre of my palm. His breathing deepens as he circles the patterns of my hand’s inner centre, focusing on every etched line. His eyes are heavy, gazing at me with that look; the one that carries so much emotional responsibility.
That look of love.
“I know this sounds weird but I always dreamed of being able to touch you, even just with my finger. For four years I laid on that mattress in the dark and ran my index finger over my thumb—over and over—dreaming my thumb was you. I would imagine being able to feel your cheeks and your lips.” As he speaks, uncertainty crosses his face.
“I remember seeing your bruises, Duchess.” I stiffen and inhale sharply. I had many bruises, and often.
“I wanted to touch them and soothe them, on your wrist, and your knees, and your chin… I thought that if I could touch them, and kiss them, I could make them feel better. The stupid things kids think, hey?” he laughs. “Is that weird?”
I frown at him. “I would never think that was weird,” I murmur, trying to settle the nervous twitch that always inundates me when my past life is discussed.
“I’m going to touch you now,” his states, his voice husky and intense.
I try to settle in, nestling into the pillow. “Okay.”
He lifts his finger to my neck, stroking my quickly accelerati
ng pulse down the column of my throat. My lips are uncomfortably dry, and every cell inside me can feel the heat from his fingertip trailing a line across my skin with its intensity. His finger traces the outline of my chest, down until it rests just above my nipple.
Oh, hell.
This is more intimate than anything else I’ve ever experienced. My heart goes into overdrive and starts beating against my ribcage.
Breathe, Blesk.
He searches my expression, narrowing his heavy-lidded eyes further. “Can I keep going?” I give him a nervous nod. His finger rolls over my nipple, and both of us suck in a quick rush of air, our breath stopping. But he doesn’t hover there, instead he continues to stroke my torso down to my navel. His finger circles my skin and shivers rush up my spine. He slides down further and all of a sudden I flinch, causing his finger to retract from me.
“I’m so sorry,” my voice shakes, “I’m just not ready for . . . that.” Disappointment weighs my insides down like a lead boulder; that moment meant so much to him. He’d dreamt about it for years.
I engulf my face in my palms hoping that somehow, I will miraculously slip away into oblivion never having to explain my previous sentence. I can’t see his face from within my hands, but I’m positive he’s frowning at me. His fingers feed through mine, pulling them away and revealing what I’m sure is a sheepish expression.
“What is this? Why are you hiding your face?” he asks. The pain in his voice cuts sharp to my core. “Have I tried to do something you didn’t want me to do, or made you feel uncomfortable, Duch?” His brows are knit together in confusion and his eyes display a muddle of emotions. He hasn’t done anything wrong or presumptuous, and doesn’t deserve this ambiguity, but I don’t want to discuss Erik. If history is anything to go by, then as soon as I trust a boy, conditions are invisibly attached.
He brushes the hair from my face, soothingly. “I don’t want anything from you. Ever. If you don’t want to do it,” he lowers his head and shakes it back and forth, “then neither do I. Fuck, I should’ve known better. After everything you’ve been through.”
Something floods his face, and he rolls off the bed, wandering over to the bathroom and walking inside. I hear a thud. My breathing picks up pace as I climb to my feet and follow him. He’s gripping the basin and staring at himself in the mirror, his face filled with loathing.
He turns to look at me, his irises dilated to the point of near blackness. “I hate what he did to you. It kills me.”
My stomach knots up. “I just need time.”
His jaw tightens. “Did I make you feel uncomfortable?” He moves to my side, pulling me back to the bed and squatting in front of me. He places one shaky hand on my knee and the other on my shoulder while he peers up at me with those lovely green eyes. “I’m sorry, beautiful, I am so, so sorry. I never want to make you feel uncomfortable.”
He hasn’t done anything.
I grab his hand and look at it; the cuts on it have split open and are oozing blood again. He's still bruised and deformed from 2 weeks ago. He pulls it from me and out of sight. “Duch, say something.”
I release a long breath, and despite my attempts to stop them, tears filter out of my eyes. “I’m sorry, Kon—”
“No,” he cuts in, shaking his head. “Don’t ever apologise to me. My feelings for you are making me go damn right out of my mind. But I’ll slow down. I’ll do better.”
I touch my finger to his mouth and hush him. He forces a crooked grin, but his eyes betray that sentiment, and then he kisses my finger, again and again, until I move it away.
“You’re so quick to blame yourself,” I say. “This is my issue, I’m the one stuffing up, Konnor.”
“No, Duch,” he cups my cheek, peering up at me, “you have been through so much. It’s my job to look after you now. Whatever that means, whatever I need to do, I’ll learn, I’ll do better.”
God, he is so perfect.
Tell him the truth, tell him now!
“Konnor.” I shake my head to release his hand from my cheeks. “I have something to tell you.”
His expression stiffens. “Okay.” His voice borders on panic. “I’m not liking that look in your eyes, so just say it.”
He parts my thighs, and moves to fill the gap between them, resting his arms on my legs, gripping my waist and peering up at my sheepish expression. “Say it. Just get it out.”
A strained sigh escapes my lips. Summoning all my courage and accepting he will probably never want to speak to me again I dive in.
“The reason I struggle with Liz . . .” I begin, looking everywhere except his face. My palms start to sweat, so I rub them on my dress. “With being her, is because my father wasn’t the one who kept you locked up. He wasn’t the one who had the key. He wasn’t the one who . . .” The words get caught in my throat and I need to choke them out. “I had the key. I could have let you out. The reason you can’t remember much wasn’t because you were sick. You were never sick. I was drugging you.”
My heart jumps into my throat and I wait. Silence.
Then the strangest thing happens. A grin tugs at his cheek. I blink in astonishment, and blink again, and again. He is smiling up at me, with what looks like relief.
“Why are you smiling like that? I’m a monster,” I say, radiating more confounding emotions than I ever thought possible. He chuckles, shaking his head slowly. My shoulders slump and I narrow my gaze at him, scrutinising his nonchalant attitude. “Did you hear what I said?” I almost a growl.
"I already knew that, Duch."
My mouth goes slack. “You what?”
“Of course I knew,” he states, and rubs my thighs with his hands affectionately. “Well, about the key. But you didn’t have a choice. You were a little kid doing what you were told. You were just as innocent as me, Blesk. You didn’t know any better.”
I've been dreading this conversation, and yet, he already knew. My brain is flipping, shuffling, trying to organise this new information into my mind, and still have a reason for years of self-destructive behaviour. Or a reason for all the self-hate, guilt, and anger that festered in me and coaxed me into taking my own life.
I gape at him. “Why did you keep taking the pills then? Every day when I gave them to you? Why didn’t you refuse?”
“Because you gave them to me, and I didn’t want your father to hit you anymore.”
“When you told Elise everything you said you were sick, though” I question, my voice breaking with confusion.
“Yeah, because I didn’t want her to know. I don’t want anyone to have a single negative thing to say about you,” he admits.
My head feels dizzy. “Oh God, Konnor, that has been tormenting me my whole life. I killed her memory, I buried her, because I blamed myself for doing that to you.”
He reaches for my face again, stroking my cheek with the pad of his thumb, his soft emerald eyes boring into me. “Well, now you can let it go, Duch. If I knew that was all this was about . . . Christ, I’m so relieved.”
All this was about?
Heat radiates in my ears.
“No, Konnor, this is a huge deal!” I stand, pulling away from him and hugging myself tightly. “Huge! I tried to kill myse—” I halt halfway through the word and immediately regret it when his smile drops, and his eyes widen. He winces as if my words caused him physical pain, and devastation is all I can see in his eyes. My hand flies to cover my eyes, gripping the tension in my forehead, and protecting my heart from the vision of that look.
I lower my hand and search his expression. Creases are etching the space between his brows and he looks completely gutted.
“No.” He swallows hard. “Blesk, tell me that’s not true.”
My eyes drop to the floor.
“I was so young, and not having you hurt all the time. And what I did to you . . .” I suck in a shaky breath, “The police told me that I couldn’t live with that over my head, that people might blame me, that everyone would know I was the daughter of the
man who stole the famous Deakon Nerrock. That it wasn’t safe for me, because of who you were. Your picture, your story was all over the news. For four years,” I whimper, my voice trembling, “I believed them. I believed that people would blame me because I blamed myself.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand in an attempt to remove all the hot sticky tears flowing uncontrollably from them, but they’re quickly replaced with more.
“And people did blame me, Konnor, they did. So how could I not blame myself? The night I helped you escape and we split up, my father found me first.” My words come out between gasps. “I tried to scream, but he beat me unconscious. The cops surrounded our house and arrested him. They found me locked in my father’s wardrobe. It was terrifying. I didn’t trust adults. I spent that night in the same hospital you were in.”
“They told me you died,” he murmurs.
“I did. Someone knew I was there, someone blamed me for what happened to you. My first night in that hospital a man came into my room and held a pillow over my head. I tried to fight him off, but I was only eight. I passed out and,” bile fills my throat, “I was legally dead for two minutes. They revived me but the police said it would be safer for me to stay dead—so to speak—so they gave me a completely new identity and reported my death.” A wave of nausea floods me, and I begin to heave, gasping for air, dropping to my knees and putting my palms on the floor. My chest wheezes, aching with each rush of strained air. I focus on inhaling and exhaling small measured breaths, so I don’t vomit.
Konnor follows me down and embraces me tightly. “Breathe, Duch.”
When the memory of that night, the feeling of that pillow over my head, the feeling of his hand pressed firmly on the other side of it, fills me with terror, I cry out, “Someone wanted me dead for what I did to you, Konnor! I was only eight! I was only eight!” My body quakes violently within Konnor’s strong arms.
“Stop talking, please, calm down,” he begs. His voice bursts with emotion as he talks into my hair. The sorrow and pain surrounding us is dangerously palpable; a presence all their own, as if they were a living, breathing things.