by H Hunting
And I’m right to worry.
I come downstairs and find my parents and Lavender’s parents sitting around the kitchen island. Their whispered conversation stops as soon as my mom addresses me. “Morning, sweetie, did you sleep okay?”
I shrug. I had bad dreams where I kept finding pieces of Lavender’s dress and her broken glasses in front of a door I couldn’t open. Every time I tried to call her name, all that came out was a whisper. It feels like I haven’t slept at all.
My mom pushes out of her chair and comes around the island so she can pull me into a hug. Usually I’d be embarrassed because we have company, but this morning I need it. I don’t like it when my parents are upset with me, and last night they were. I’m already taller than my mom, so I have to hunch. When she lets me go, her eyes are bright and shiny, as if she’s trying not to cry.
“What’s going on?”
She brushes my hair away from my forehead. “We all need to have a talk.”
“We did that last night, though.” My stomach feels off.
“I know, but we thought it would be best if we were all present, and Queenie will be here too.”
I glance over where everyone is sitting. They look tired and sad. “What about Lavender?”
“Queenie’s going to bring her. You should get dressed, because they’ll be here soon. I’ll make you some toast, okay?”
“Okay.” I nod numbly and go back upstairs to change. Everything feels wrong.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting at the table with a glass of orange juice and buttered toast I don’t think I can eat with how nervous I am—especially since Lavender is seated across the table from me, her parents situated to the right of her, just like mine.
There are dark circles under her eyes, making the blue even more vibrant. She clasps her hands on the table, and her teeth run along the scar on her bottom lip, over and over again. Her lips are red and raw.
Queenie sits at the head of the table, with us on either side. Her eyes are soft and full of compassion, but today she also looks nervous and slightly uncomfortable.
“Do you know why we’re all here?” she asks.
“Because of me,” Lavender says quietly.
Her mom puts her hand over Lavender’s but doesn’t squeeze.
“This isn’t just about you, Lavender. If it were, only you would be here,” Queenie explains. “What happened yesterday made us very aware of how out-of-hand this situation has gotten. We cannot rely on another human being to make our anxiety better.”
“But it’s only when it’s really bad,” I argue. “And I make it stop.”
“Lavender’s panic attacks have increased in frequency and severity over the past several months,” Queenie says.
“That’s because Courtney is bullying her. And middle school is different. It was hard for me too, when I started,” I counter.
“I agree that middle school is different, and Lavender’s told me about the bullying, which we’re going to deal with. But it’s more than that, Kody. You’re hiding things, and that’s not good for either of you.”
“I’m not hiding anything!” But it’s hard to swallow, because that’s a lie.
Queenie nods to Lavender’s dad, who produces a thick folder. Inside is a stack of white paper. He flips it open and fans the sheets out. His gaze meets mine; he doesn’t look angry, but he doesn’t look happy either. “These are the text messages between you and Lavender for the past two weeks.”
I look at Lavender. Her chin quivers, and I can see the apology in her eyes. She didn’t remember to erase the messages, or maybe her parents kept all the message receipts. I disabled mine, but didn’t think to do the same for Lavender.
Tears stream down her cheeks, and her shoulders shake as she curls in on herself. Her mom takes her hand, probably so she doesn’t hurt herself again, although her nails have been cut.
“I know you care about Lavender, Kody, and you would never do anything to hurt her, but this”—her dad has to clear his throat—“talking almost twenty-four-seven without anyone knowing. It isn’t good for either of you.”
My anxiety spikes as I think about all the messages we’ve sent, the things we talk about, the times where some girl has said something mean to her, and I’ve told Lavender the girl is jealous because Lavender is prettier. Her dad has read them all. He knows sometimes we message late at night when she’s having trouble sleeping, and that our messages are constant, starting first thing in the morning and continuing all day. We’re each other’s lifelines. Why don’t they understand that?
“She’s my friend,” I say. “I just want to help.”
My mom squeezes my hand. “We know, honey.”
“I think it would be good to establish some boundaries,” Queenie says gently.
Lavender’s expression reflects the panic I feel.
“Boundaries?” she whispers.
“You two need some space from each other,” my mom says.
Queenie looks at my mom, lips pursed, and I can tell she’s doing that thing where she’s really thinking about what she wants to say. “This dependency is becoming unhealthy. It’s not good that you’re hiding things from your parents.” Queenie takes Lavender’s free hand. “You were doing so well, Lavender. I know middle school is different, but we can’t go backwards in life; we can only keep moving forward, or what happens?”
“We get stuck in bad patterns.” Lavender’s gaze shifts briefly to me and then away again. Two tears drop onto the tabletop. “I can do better. I’ll do better. I’ll work on my strategies. Just please . . .” Her voice breaks.
“I know you can, and it will be easier to do if we set some boundaries for the two of you. We’ll try—” Queenie says.
“I really think it would be best if they had some time apart,” Lavender’s dad interrupts. “Kody will be in high school next year. Lavender, he’s not going to be there to help you.”
“But he can still be my friend, even if we’re not in the same school.” Lavender’s eyes are wide, darting from her dad, to me, to Queenie.
“Of course he can, but you can’t only rely on Kody to get you through the panic. You have to rely on you,” Queenie says.
Even though I don’t want to see it, acknowledge it, believe it, Lavender’s dad is right.
I won’t be there next year. And then what? How will she manage without me? I’ve been damaging Lavender without even realizing it. Setting her back instead of helping her move forward.
My stomach turns at the thought.
But Lavender was so helpless yesterday.
“You need to be able to cope without a human crutch,” Queenie explains.
Lavender goes into a full meltdown.
All I can do is watch it happen, knowing how much worse I’ve made things for her.
I want to save her from her demons, and me from mine. But they always catch up. No matter how hard we try to outrun them.
Something dark settles in my gut. Anger I’ve never felt before bubbles up and mixes with despair, because I finally realize what everyone else seemed to know already: Lavender is better off without me.
Present day
“HOLY FUCK, MAN, check out that ass,” says some freshman jerk-off, who’s had one too many beers, to the guy beside him.
I knew this was a bad idea, but I still let it happen. Maverick wanted one last party before we close up the pool, and then he went and disappeared upstairs to his room with his girl of the month, leaving me to manage things.
It was only supposed to be a few of the guys, but then a few people told a few more people, and it snowballed from there. I’d have to say there are more than fifty people out here. And it’s only eight o’clock. I’m sure Mav will be back down in an hour, but until then, I have to deal with people, and that’s pretty much my least favorite thing to do.
If my house weren’t currently under construction thanks to some faulty wiring that shorted out the toaster oven, and the kitchen weren’t completely gutted, I could leave h
im with this mess. But since I live here for the foreseeable future, I don’t have much of a choice. On the upside, we’ll have a sweet new kitchen whenever it’s done.
Fortunately, River is out for the night, so I don’t have to manage him glaring holes through me. And Lavender is likely hiding in her room, which is pretty much all she’s done since I moved in after the fire. Her room is directly above mine.
Her bedframe squeaks at night when she’s restless. The hum of her sewing machine is a relentless drone in the wee hours of the morning when she can’t sleep. She sings in the shower all the time. But the worst are the nights when I mutter some heinous comment to her, meant to remind us both what a horrible fucking person I am. And later, I get the confirmation I’m looking for when I hear her fighting for breath. I used to be the one to save her. Now I’m the reason she falls apart. Those are the nights she sews for hours.
As the party rages, I distract myself by scrolling through my messages. My mom called an hour ago to check in on me. I lied and told her I was studying at the library, but that I would call her tomorrow.
“Oh shit.” BJ sets down his beer, which he’s been nursing for the past hour. It has to be piss warm by now. I glance at him, but my phone pings again; IG this time. I’m bored. I wish Lavender would stop hiding so I’d have something to occupy my brain.
“Someone distract Clarke so I can introduce myself.” Freshman Jerk-off knocks back the rest of his beer and slams the plastic cup down on the railing, causing it to crumple.
“I’m on it,” another freshman says. “But it means I get your sloppy seconds.”
“Maybe she’ll be down with tag-team action.”
“Fuck, yeah.” They fist bump each other.
“I would seriously consider shutting the fuck up,” BJ says.
Freshman Jerk-off’s brow furrows. “Why? Look at her—that bathing suit screams bend me over and slap my ass while you ride me from behind.”
“Because that’s my cousin, and if you so much as breathe in her direction, I’ll use your nuts as a bow tie at my next formal event.”
That gets my attention. I follow Freshman Jerk-off’s gaze toward the pool and nearly ram my fist into his face when I realize who he’s talking about. “What in the actual fuck?”
Standing at the edge of the pool, smiling at Clarke—a senior and one of the dirtiest players on the team—as he hands her a shot, is Lavender. It’s bad enough that she’s way underage—although more than half the people here fall into that category—and that she’s wearing a goddamn white bikini, the top of which barely covers her nipples. The bottoms are a thong. Her entire ass is on display, including the strawberry birthmark that very much resembles a heart. I saw it once, by accident, when we were kids. Her butt had been eating her bathing suit at the time.
Obviously I never fucking forgot.
Is she the only girl out here in a thong? Nope. But she should know better than to put herself on display like this. If Maverick and River were here to see, they would lose their goddamn minds. And clearly the responsibility is going to fall on me, considering the way BJ is smirking.
“Lavender, get over here!” I shout.
Her smile widens, but she doesn’t look away from Clarke. Instead, she raises her hand in the air and fires the bird in my direction.
BJ barks out a laugh.
“Fuck this bullshit.” I slam my beer down on the closest surface, and because it’s mostly full, it acts like a geyser, splashing me and everyone within a three-foot radius, including a few bunnies who are standing close by, eavesdropping on our conversation—or waiting for the right moment to rub their tits on whoever they’re interested in hooking up with tonight. Three girls have done that to me already tonight, including that chick who came into my room in August and offered me her sloppy seconds.
All I can see is red as Clarke reaches out and fingers the end of Lavender’s ponytail, conveniently resting about two inches away from her right boob. Which is what he’s staring at. And so is every other guy out here. Or her ass.
Obviously this is payback for the art class. The major difference is the presence of alcohol and a lot of testosterone-fueled jocks. I’m not sure she really, truly thought it through before she came out here dressed the way she is. Because as much as she’s smiling and laughing, her skin is turning red. It goes blotchy at her chest first and works its way up her shoulders and neck, slowly moving down her torso.
It’s not something most people would notice right away. But I do. Because it’s Lavender. And as much as she doesn’t want me to know all of her deep, dark, painful secrets, I still do.
“Touch her again and you’ll be minus more than just your front teeth,” I call out as I approach.
I’m making a scene—one I’ll probably regret because it’s going to get back to Mav and River. But if they were here, this wouldn’t be happening.
Lavender finally looks my way. “You can go back to your bunnies, Kodiak. I don’t need a bodyguard or a babysitter.”
Clarke laughs and smirks at me. “You heard her. We’re good.” He slings his arm over her shoulder and pulls her into his side. I’m pretty sure her ass cheek is pressed up against his leg, and his fingers dangle perilously close to her boob.
My control slips. The frustration over not being able to have what I want is wearing me down. Everyone has an opinion on what’s good for me—how I have to manage all the impulses, how I can’t let the obsessions rule me the way they often do. But this is more than I can take. It’s been weeks and weeks of fighting the need, of being an asshole because the alternative is to dive right back into that fixation—and if I do, I’m very worried it’s going to consume me. And her.
But we’re living in the same house. And she’s right above me every night. Close enough to hear and too far away to touch.
All the rational parts of my brain short out. I slam my palms into Clarke’s chest, and he stumbles back. Losing his footing, he lands in the pool with a massive splash.
Lavender throws her hands in the air, her anger nowhere near as vicious as mine. Not yet anyway. “What is your goddamn problem, Kodiak?”
“You are my fucking problem. You’re always the problem,” I snap.
A flash of hurt crosses her face, but she rolls her shoulders back. “You could solve your problem pretty easily by leaving, since this is my house, not yours.”
She’s right. Of course. I could have stayed in a million different places while my house is getting a new, uncharred kitchen, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to be here so I could torture her the way she’s tortured me for years without even realizing it. Turns out, I’m a bit of a masochist.
Clarke pulls himself out of the pool, spluttering and fuming. “What the hell is up your ass, Bowman?”
I point a finger at him. “Stay out of this. It’s not your business, and she’s not for you.”
Lavender’s mouth opens, but no words come out. A sick feeling makes my stomach twist. I’m doing this in a public place, something she hates so much. All this attention on her, and she’s mostly naked.
I’m done with the audience. I try to take her hand, but she swats me away. I slip an arm around her waist and haul her up against me. She kicks and flails, making it difficult to avoid her thrashing limbs. I drop down on one knee, wrap my arm around her legs, and toss her over my shoulder. She shrieks, high-pitched and clearly shocked. I stalk toward the house, gripping her thighs tightly, because the last thing I want to do is drop her on her face.
She sucks in a gasping breath and wheezes my name, “Kodiak!”
Her tits bounce against my back as I jog up the stairs, past Freshman Jerk-off, the desperate bunnies, and BJ, whose brow is raised like he’s in on a secret.
“BJ!” Lavender shrieks, extending her hand, but he’s way too far away to reach.
He grins, shakes his head, and raises his hands in surrender. “Sorry, Lav, I can’t help you now.”
She grabs the edge of the doorframe as we pass through the French d
oors. I have to give it to her; she puts up a decent fight—not like when she was a scared little kid.
“Down!” she says, loud and squeaky and pissed.
I turn, not to acknowledge her, but to pry her fingers free. When I hit the first step on the way to the second floor, she slaps my ass, hard. And then she does it several more times, so I do it back.
She shrieks, obviously not expecting my retaliation.
“You might want to think twice before you do that again,” I warn.
“You’re an asshole, Kodiak!”
“You’re just figuring that out now?” My skin prickles as I pass the second floor bedrooms and head for the attic, where we keep Princess Lavender.
The sharp sting of her teeth sinking into my side makes me almost miss a step. My grip on her thigh tightens further, and I turn my head, biting the soft, hot flesh next to my ear. She tastes like things I shouldn’t want.
“Ow!” she screams.
I release her skin from my teeth, barely resisting the urge to suck and leave a mark that will last. She kicks her door open for me, and I almost groan as I’m submerged in everything Lavender—posters on the walls, sparkling sewing needles, and the smells. There’s fresh fabric, lavender candles to calm, and peppermint oil to stimulate for studying. The smell of her shampoo also hangs heavy in the air.
I’ve been in here a few times, even though I shouldn’t—mostly as an experiment to see if I could handle it. I can’t. My knees almost buckle as I breathe in the familiar scents, so much stronger up here. All around her room are pieces of random art and photographs of her with her family and friends.
There is nothing of me. Not one picture. Not a single memory.
I made it this way. I did this.
Because I didn’t want to smother her. Because I didn’t want her to rely on me. Because relying on her was dangerous for both of us. Because I knew the lines were always going to be blurry, and my ability to separate her from the obsession might become impossible. I could never let go of the fact that I’d let her down, even as I tried to help, and my mistakes had altered her, and us, irrevocably.