Unraveling You Series: The Complete Set

by Jessica Sorensen

  “Not after what happened today. At the class, I mean. Plus, they’re worried about that guy we saw watching my house.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry I told my mom about that. I just felt that, with everything going on, they should know.”

  “It’s okay. I’m glad you did. I should have told them myself.”

  I twist a strand of my hair around my finger. “Ayden, do you think what happened today . . . Was that a panic attack?”

  He’s quiet before he answers. “I was remembering stuff.”

  My head whips in his direction. “What?”

  He exhales. “It happens sometimes . . . when I’m stressed out . . . or when things happen that remind me of my past.”

  We arrive at the iron gate and veer down the sidewalk, past the homes sparkling with Christmas lights, wreaths, inflatable globes, and even some with artificial snow.

  “Was it the stress of today?” I scoot over as one of our neighbors strolls by, giving us a friendly wave.

  “Yeah, kind of,” Ayden replies, waving back.

  “Kind of? Was it the letter from your sister?”

  “Yes and no.” When I stare at him, silently pressing for more, his shoulders slump. “I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”

  “Then don’t,” I say frankly. “When I told you that you could tell me anything, I meant it.”

  He contemplates what I’ve said. “It was because of all the touching we’ve been doing.” His voice is barely audible and crammed with apprehension.

  “Oh.” My shoulders sink along with my mouth. “I get it.”

  He abruptly slams to a halt, grabbing my arm and stopping me with him. “No, you don’t get it.” Panic floods his eyes. “I want to touch you. I think about it all the time . . . Have ever since that day in your dad’s office when I . . .”

  I can’t see his cheeks, but I can picture how red they are, like every time he talks about something sexual.

  “When you got turned on,” I calmly finish for him.

  On the inside, I’m a wreck.

  All the way back then,

  His heart danced for me,

  Spun a longing for my soul

  And sought the taste and feel of me.

  All this time, all this time, all this time,

  He wanted me.

  He bobs his head up and down. “You’re the first girl who ever made me feel that way.”

  “The first that’s ever turned you on?” I ask, astonished.

  I’ve often wondered how sexually experienced he is, if he’s still a virgin. The first time I met him, he was wearing all black along with a leather collar, gauges in his ears, and he was sporting black nail polish. I assumed back then that, because of his rough appearance, he was experienced. Then I actually got to know him and discovered how much he hated being touched, and I questioned my initial assumption. I still don’t know for sure, since he never offers to talk about his past.

  “You’re the first girl I’ve ever wanted to turn me on.” He chokes up, his hand on my arm trembles, and his fingers dig into the fabric of my jacket. “It’s not the first time I’ve ever been turned on . . . just the first time where I wasn’t . . . being forced . . .” His voice cracks.

  His comment rolls over me like a vicious wave. What he’s trying to say without actually saying it. That he thinks he’s been sexually abused.

  The reality of how harsh his life has been knocks the wind out of me. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? With the way he hates being touched.

  “Ayden, I . . .” I’m speechless, unsure what to say to him and freaking terrified I’ll say the wrong thing.

  “I don’t know if anything actually happened to me in that house. All I know is that, at fourteen-years-old, I went into that house feeling okay with being touched. But, when I came out of the house . . .” He skims a finger along my jawline. “Sometimes, something as simple as a handshake can make me feel like I’m going to throw up. But I’m working it, working on getting better,” he whispers, sounding as if he’s trying to convince himself more than me.

  My lips part as I prepare to ask him how he’s working on it, but then his lips come down on my mouth. I stumble back from the unexpected contact and grab onto him to stop from falling. My fingers grasp his shirt, and I end up pulling him back with me. Losing our balance, we slam against the fence, but our lips remain fused together, even when Ayden moans.

  “I’m trying,” he whispers through kisses. His tongue tangles with mine as his hands find my waist and he pulls me toward him in desperation. “I want to be able to kiss you like you deserve to be kissed.”

  I have no clue what he’s talking about, because I am being kissed like I deserve.

  This kiss, it makes my body pulsate.

  Makes flames blaze under my skin.

  Steals my breath from my lungs.

  But it’s not really stealing

  When I’m giving the air to him.

  Willingly giving him anything he wants.

  Just say the word, Ayden, and it’s yours.

  My heart.

  My soul.

  Whatever you want.

  “Ayden,” I gasp into his mouth as his body starts to quiver, “it’s okay. I’m fine with how things are. And I love our kisses.”

  He abruptly pulls away, his solid chest heaving as he struggles for oxygen. “No, it’s not . . . okay . . . nothing is.” He avoids looking at me, staring at the corner of the street. The Christmas lights reflect in his eyes, making it appear as if he’s tearing up. “You deserve so much better than some guy who can’t even touch you.”

  “You can touch me.” I grab his hand, lace our fingers together, and pull him. I refuse to let him go. Ever. “See.”

  His gaze drops to our linked hands. “It’s not the same as if you were with someone else who didn’t have so many problems.”

  “Of course it’s not.” I swing our hands. “It’s so much better.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows hard. “You say that now, but you’ll change your mind eventually.”

  “No, I won’t. You leaving my life would crush my heart, and I refuse to let my heart get crushed.”

  “It may take forever for me to get over this. And it could get worse when I start seeing the therapist for my amnesia.”

  “I don’t care.” I stand firm, knowing that, through all my indecisiveness and sporadic choices, I do want Ayden. I decided that the moment he kissed me for the first time to try to erase the painful memory of my first kiss that William stole from me. “I want this . . . want you.”

  His hand shakes in my hand, but he nods his head once. I’m not positive what the nod means. If he wants this—wants me, too. If he’s giving us a shot. I’m hoping so, hoping what he says is true. Because what I’ve said is the truth.

  He’ll crush my heart if he leaves my life.

  Will I live? Sure. I’m not going to become overdramatic and think I’ll drop dead if Ayden decides he can’t be with me. Will my life be destroyed? For a while maybe, but eventually, I’ll get over it the best I can. But there will always be a scar on my heart connected to every memory of Ayden. And I’d rather not have a scar.

  I’d rather just have him forever.

  OVER THE NEXT COUPLE OF days, things are a little awkward between Lyric and I after I confessed that I might have been sexually abused. But I think we’re just confused where our relationship stands. Are we friends? Boyfriend and girlfriend? I have no idea. I’d like to believe, after the conversation we had the other night, that we’re the latter. But we haven’t really said anything to confirm it. We behave the same as we always do. Still holding hands. Joking. She makes me smile. I’ll take whatever she’ll give me. I’m not even sure I could take more if she offered it. I wish I could offer her more, though. I meant what I said that night I kissed her near the park. She deserves better than what I can give her.

  I don’t have too much time to overanalyze what’s going on between us because my amnesia therapy sessio
ns begin this week. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’m absolutely frightened out of my goddamn mind.

  It’s late in the evening and I’m lying in a lounge chair inside my therapist’s office. My arms are tensely overlapped on my stomach and my heart is pounding like a freaking drum, thrashing against my chest.

  “Now, Ayden,” my therapist, Dr. Gardingdale leans forward in the chair and hovers over me. A string quartet flows around me and the ceiling light flickers about every two minutes or so. “I need to make sure you want to do this. Because the last thing I want is for anyone to push you into this. It could make your Severe Post Traumatic Amnesia worse.”

  Inhale. Exhale. I nod, even though I don’t. Want is too strong of a word. Am I going to do this? Yes. But only for my brother.

  “Alright then. I’m going to record our session for the police to review.” He relaxes in the chair and reaches behind him to press the on button of a recorder. He taps the top of a timer. “And I don’t want to keep you under for too long.”

  He had explained when I first came in that this was a lot like hypnotherapy. I’d never tried it before but had watched someone get hypnotized at a fair.

  I suck in a deep breath and nod, my nerves jarring. “Okay.”

  “Now close your eyes.”

  “Okay.”

  “And relax.”

  “Ok . . . ay.”

  “Do you hear that, Ayden,” my sister says. “Cop sirens. We’re saved.”

  Saved? Is it possible?

  “It’ll never be possible,” a woman whispers. “”You’ll never be saved. Because if you escape, we’ll come back for you . . .”

  I rub my eyes as I open them. Blinking against the inadequate lighting, I sit up. “Did it work?” I ask the doctor. “Did I say anything?”

  His sympathy tells me all I need to know. “Unfortunately no, but did you remember anything different?”

  “Just my sister saying we were saved.” I drag my fingers along the scars on the back of my hand. “And a woman telling me we weren’t ever going to be saved.”

  “Well, that’s a tiny bit of progress then.” He stops the timer. “I don’t want you to immediately get discouraged that you only were able to remember a little. These things can take time.”

  He continues explaining the details of hypnotherapy while I zone out and focus on the short memory I did see. See might be a stretch. Heard is more like it. No one ever has faces in the faint memories that return to me. They’re just blurs, shells of people and places that I pretend don’t exist.

  After the session, I return home in a sullen mood and feel exhausted. I go straight up to my room to relax and play the guitar until Lyric comes bounding into my room, sporting one of her heart-warming smiles.

  “I have an idea,” she singsongs as she bounces onto my bed.

  “And what’s that?” I pluck a few guitar strings.

  “Even though it’s Christmas Eve and we’re supposed to exchange presents,” she kneels in front of me, “I think we should wait.”

  “Wait? But you love, love opening presents.”

  “True, but I was thinking it might be fun to do it later when life is a bit more cheery.” She situates beside me and tugs the hem of her dress down as she stretches out her legs. Her hair is up, her deliciously looking lips sheen with gloss, and her green eyes radiate enthusiasm. “And it could be like a weird little tradition we do. Instead of being cliché and exchanging them on Christmas Eve, like a ton of people are doing all around the world.”

  I ponder her offer. “All right, you have yourself a deal.”

  “Good.” She grins. “Because I can’t think of a damn thing to get you.”

  I shake my head, faintly smiling. “I knew there was an ulterior motive.” I strum the strings of a song I’ve been working on.

  “What’s that tune you’re playing?” Lyric wonders, sliding her legs up and facing me.

  “Just a song that’s been stuck in my head.”

  “I like it . . . it’s pretty.”

  “Pretty isn’t very rock n’ roll.”

  “Neither are you.” She slumps her head against the headboard. “You’re sweet and sensitive and piercing free.” She touches the tip of her finger to the corner of my eye, causing me to miss the next chord. “You have such long eyelashes . . . They’re gorgeous.”

  “So let me get this straight.” I set the guitar down on the foot of the bed and turn to her. “You tell me I’m not very rock n’ roll and that I have gorgeous eyelashes. I’m not really sure how to take that.”

  “You should be happy,” she insists, her gaze momentarily flicking onto my mouth. “Being rock n’ roll in a band is cliché and your gorgeous eyelashes make your eyes stunning.”

  My cheeks flame. I’m blushing.

  “You’re cute.” She swipes her finger down the brim of my nose. “I remember the first day of school how I held your hand. I felt so special that you were all mine.”

  My heart flutters like an upbeat song when she declares that she pretty much claimed me a year and a half ago. “You are special,” I say, wishing I was brave enough to kiss her right now. But after therapy, the doctor had said to take it easy with anything severely emotional. Just being with Lyric sparks emotions to life. Good ones like happiness and longing.

  I pick my guitar up while Lyric fluffs a pillow and lies down in my bed. She watches me play for a while, running her fingers through her hair.

  “So, how did your therapy go today?” she finally dares to ask as I play a song.

  I shrug. “Not too bad, but that’s probably because nothing really happened.”

  “You didn’t remember anything at all?”

  Another pluck, another strum. “Maybe a little.”

  “Okay.”

  I know she wants to ask what I saw, but she seals her lips together, suppressing her questions.

  “It was when the police found us.” I cease playing. “It was the last time I saw my sister . . . and she seemed so happy that we were saved.” His jawline tautens. “One of the women that was holding us there . . . she said we’d never be saved . . . she warned me she’d find us again.” My fingernails enfold into my palms, biting my flesh. “What if that’s what happened to my brother? What if they went back for him? What if it’s only a matter of time before they come back for me?”

  “Ayden, you’re safe.” When I try to look away from her, she captures my face between her hands. “You have a family who loves you—people who love you. Nothing is going to happen to you.”

  Life would be less complex if I could wholeheartedly believe her. But after my brother’s death, I can’t fully accept that nothing will happen to me.

  I rest my forehead against hers and take a few shallow breaths as she slips her leg through mine and aligns our bodies.

  “What do you want to do for the rest of the night?” she asks, playing with my hair.

  “Can we just stay like this? Can we just pretend that everything is okay for a while?”

  “Of course.”

  She wiggles around until we’re both lying down face to face. She keeps her leg between my legs, her hand on my cheek, and her forehead against mine. We fit together so perfectly it’s mind-boggling.

  How is this possible?

  To completely fit with someone.

  Our bodies creating lyrics

  Perfectly composing

  As our hearts dance together.

  Nothing makes sense.

  Yet everything makes sense.

  Perfect is so confusing.

  A dizzy spell inside my head.

  Thirsting for answers.

  With nothing to drink.

  Where do I go?

  To find out who I am?

  I TRY NOT TO WORRY over the failed attempt of restoring my memories and instead concentrate on the band. It’s not like that session was the only chance for me to remember. Plus, part of me is relieved the session didn’t work. Relieved I didn’t have to relive the hellish nightmare. But a
nother part of me feels guilty, like I’m not doing all that I can to help track down my brother’s killer.

  A couple of days later, I’m sitting in Sage’s garage with Lyric, listening to music, attempting to focus on chords, notes, and the strum of my fingers. It’s still Christmas break. December thirtieth to be exact. Everywhere I look still screams, the holidays aren’t over yet! Cheer up! We’re starting a new year! On top of everything going on with therapy, I haven’t heard anything back from Rebel Tonic yet and cheering up seems impossible when the possibility that he ripped me off gets higher.

  Things remain pretty quiet for the first ten minutes or so while we wait for Sage and Nolan to show up so we can get band practice started. They were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago, but Sage texted me and said they were picking up pizza on their way back from a concert they went to over the weekend. He also still needs to chat with me about something. He’s been texting me for about a week now, but has never gotten around to actually telling me what he needs to discuss. I’d probably worry about it a little bit more, but I’ve had other things on my mind.

  “Self-defense class should be called kick-your-ass class. I’m so sore,” Lyric says, massaging her shoulder. “I feel like such a wimp.”

  “That’s because you are a wimp,” I joke as I strum a few chords on my guitar.

  She shifts on the sofa and lightly punches my arm. “Whatever. I could so kick your ass if I wanted to.”

  “I was holding back on you in class.”

  In class, I’d been Lyric’s partner, which required a lot of touching and human contact. I didn’t flip out too badly, so I felt pretty proud of myself. I kept reminding myself that it was important for Lyric to be able to learn to protect herself, and in order to learn, I had to be a good partner. After everything she’s done for me, I owe her so much.

  “I could so tell, too.” She fiddles with the microphone cord. “You’re such a softie when it comes to me.”

  God, if she knew how right she is.

  How much I melt just from just a simple look from her.

  A glance in my direction

  Sends my pulse racing.

  Her green eyes melt away