by Lana Sky
“Me? Nervous?” I try to smile wide, but he shakes his head.
“Stop.” This time, he does touch me, stroking the corner of my mouth as if to wipe the fake expression away. “You don’t have to pretend for me. You can do this,” he insists firmly. “And…I’m proud of you for trying.”
My face overheats. To hide the flushing, I turn my attention to a nearby building I assume to be a library. It resembles an ancient castle, plopped right here in the middle of a brooding artist’s wet dream.
I’ll never get into a place like this. Admitting that stings, and I’m blinking faster, swallowing hard. “Well, if nothing else, at least I can say that I attempted to get into the same college that produced the amazing James Thorne—”
“Stop putting me on a pedestal.” He grips my chin in punishment, forcing me to face him again. “This isn’t about me or what I’ve accomplished. I don’t even want you to think of me tomorrow. This is about you. What is it you want?”
My lips twitch. For once, I don’t want the truth to spill out. “I want to make you happy.”
“Not good enough.” His eyes narrow. “You’ll fail.”
“Of course. I always do—” I try to wriggle my chin from his grasp. He doesn’t relent, and all I can do to escape is close my eyes like a child. Lalala, I can’t hear him.
“Look…look at me, Maryanne.” Sighing, he bats the curls from my face, and I can’t deny his demand. “No more games. Tell me what it is you want. Not what you think you should want, but what you really want.”
That’s easy.
“You?”
He scoffs. Then sighs. “No.”
His exasperated tone pulls a new answer from me before he can walk away.
“What if I want…to make people hear me. I want to make it impossible for them not to. I…I want to be an artist. Like you.”
“An artist?” His eyes widen in a thoughtful way. He wasn’t expecting that answer, I think. “Good,” he says. “Then remind yourself of that. Every damn day if you have to. Never be afraid of the challenge.”
“And what about you?” I can’t help it. I’m nosy in his presence. I’m reckless. As I stand this close to him, it’s like we’re alone, even as countless other people pass us by. Breathing him in is comparable to drinking wine by the bottle—I’m drunk. “Are you going to confront yourself?”
He turns away and my heart stops beating for a second or two. I’ve never seen him like this, aged by a million years in the space of a second. His voice comes out a hollow rasp. “I’m going to try.”
In what ways? Divorce? Confronting Jeremy Weston? Something even more disruptive?
He doesn’t say, and I’m not brave enough to ask. I’ll take his advice in baby steps.
“Maybe I’ll look up Marie?” I’m only half-joking. Facing my mother feels like the epitome of confrontation. Damn him for making me feel—even for a second—like I could actually do it.
One day.
“Oh?” His face doesn’t reveal a hint of what he really thinks. “You’re looking ahead. Good.”
“I bet you’ll miss me,” I counter. “After I graduate, I mean.”
He won’t, of course. He has Elaine and Thornfield. Namely, he has a life that doesn’t revolve around me the way mine always has around him. Grinning wide, I cross my arms to shield against the rebuttal that I know is coming.
“Maybe.” His fingers trace the curve of my jaw and I stiffen in shock. He’s too close now. There’s no mocking smile to counter the intimacy of this moment. Just stifling summer air and his body heat, making me sweat. Burn. “But maybe I shouldn’t.”
My stomach sinks, pooling at my feet. “W-why?”
“Because.” He leans in close, grazing my forehead with his lips, and I’m paralyzed.
My pulse surges. My chest is a vice over fragile lungs and ribs. I can’t breathe. I just close my eyes and feel him, memorizing this moment in a way unfit to jot down even in my red journal.
“I’ll only ever hold you back,” he murmurs, pulling away. “Come on.” He heads for the car, allowing his voice to drift back to me. “Let’s get you unpacked.”
Thorny’s suggestion is an unintentional turn of phrase: get me unpacked. But he already has. Racing heartbeat. Flushing skin. Dizzy little girl screaming to be heard. I’m a series of puzzle pieces assembled and reassembled by him—so many times that I’ve forgotten the original image.
His version is better anyway, a fragile thing, balanced on a web of lies. It’s inevitable that she’ll fall and smash into pieces—but at least he might help put them back together this time.
And even if he doesn’t…his fingerprints are already on every shattered, jagged shard.
That could be enough.
We hopeful applicants are shoved into the corner of a dormant building, forced to stay in rooms we may not claim come fall. Mine is too small: a hole in the wall not meant for two people to squeeze into.
The halls smell like dust and old, forgotten memories—but this narrow space reeks of Thorny. Like I have the entire ocean lurking in my suitcase, along with a change of clothes and my brand-new watch. I unfold my pink blouse and my clean jeans, spreading them out over a lumpy, unfamiliar mattress.
“Well…I guess that’s it,” Thorny says after clearing his throat. He sounds too final, as though he’s referring to more than just this moment. That’s it: the end of everything.
And I don’t want to hear it. Lalala. I curl my hands into fists just to keep from slamming them over my ears.
“I…” His fingers brush my shoulder in a hesitant goodbye. “I guess I should leave.”
“Can I have a hug?” My heart clenches as his footsteps drift toward the doorway and slow near the threshold.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Just one.” I’m whispering like it matters. Maybe if I don’t speak too loudly, he’ll keep pretending with me. One hug won’t tip the scales between us. One hug and he can still go back to Elaine guilt-free.
It’s just one hug.
I turn toward him when he doesn’t move. He has a hand on the door, holding it open so that anyone who happens to walk by can serve as a witness. The way his gaze keeps darting toward the hallway gives him away; he wants someone to come.
But no one does by the time I reach him and encircle his waist from behind. He gets so stiff. I’m sure he’ll push me off. It’s okay if he does.
I’m already breathing him in deep to get my fix, sealing him away. Deep down, a part of me senses that it’s for good. Writing was always his first love—and he threw it away to keep Elaine close. Their marriage is the balcony that stops him from jumping into the ocean.
We just won’t say it out loud.
At least for these few tense seconds, he’s mine, and I selfishly hoard each one. Inhaling, I press my cheek against the planes of his back, memorizing every curve. Every nuance and shudder as he sharply inhales and exhales with a groan.
“Stop…” He means it.
I feel him take a step toward the door and my arms tighten involuntarily. “Wait.”
It’s wrong. I know it is.
But he’s the one who wanted me to be honest. Confront myself. And he was right: the real Maryanne is a selfish, foolish little psychopath.
I let my eyes shut, drunk on sea salt and wine. He smells even stranger outside of Thornfield. Sharp and pungent, but in a way that makes my mouth water, and my throat close up, and my stomach twist into knots.
“Can I ask you for one thing before you go?” I find myself blurting out, muffled by the fabric of his shirt. “Just one thing?”
“What?”
“I want you to lie to me,” I whisper. “Just for a second—”
“Maryanne.”
“I just need to hear it once. For a second, I promise.” I’m holding him tighter. Too tight. A low sound slips from his chest, dangerous and unsettling. A part of me shivers in foreboding, but I can’t let go. “Just once. You saying you love me.”
“You know I love you,” he snaps back. “Now, stop.” He tries to shove me off.
I don’t budge, clutching him tighter. “Like you mean it,” I insist. “Like…”
Like how he talks about writing and playing with words and prose. Or the longing, fearful way he looks at the ocean, unable to verbalize what about it calls to him so much. I want him to lie to me sweetly. Sweet enough to counter the bitter, bitter end when he pushes me away again.
Because I know it’s coming. With Elaine back, he has no choice. A man like him is a slave to himself, always at odds with his true nature. Now I know why he writes about death so much: it’s the quickest, easiest means to an end.
Even if it hurts, someone gets their freedom.
“I’m not doing this with you.” He wrenches away, leaving me stumbling for balance.
My hand catches the wall, and I watch him lumber over the threshold. Then he’s gone. Angry footsteps carry him down the hall, echoing like the opening salvo of a thunderstorm.
This one will be epic, ripping me apart in the aftermath…
But it’s still a ways off. Three slower, heavier footfalls bring him back, and he stands there awkwardly, dominating the narrow doorway.
“You don’t know a damn thing about love,” he declares, his voice rasping and hollow. “Describe it, then. What is it you love about me?” He twists the word, making it sound nasty.
I sigh, flexing my fingers as if I can capture his voice and unravel the tangled tone. I can straighten the twisted pieces out and make it whole again. The five-second rule applies in this case; his love is a little dirty but still safe to swallow.
“I love how you make me feel,” I admit, surprised to feel the answer resonate in my stomach—it’s that real. Love isn’t how his books describe it as: cold, clinical relationships or functional marriages. It’s stupid and simple, and it doesn’t require a pretty sentence to convey it. Still, I try. “You make me feel crazy, and wild, and like…it’s maybe okay to be those things.”
My cheeks heat up as I watch him process that confession. He takes a step closer, shoving the door behind him. It closes. I jump.
He’s closer.
“What else?”
My tongue flits out, wetting my bottom lip. “You make me feel…” Too much. I let my eyes drift shut and attempt to count the many ways. Ironically, I can only settle on one stupid word. “Good. Like I make sense. Finally, for once, I make sense.”
Even when I don’t.
“And?”
Alarm tingles down my spine as my face heats.
He’s breathing me in with rapid, harsh breaths, igniting my skin. “What else?”
“You make me feel…weak. Like I’m a pathetic, broken thing who doesn’t have to try so damn hard to pretend like I’m not.”
It’s terrifying to have my sarcasm stripped away and my lies exposed. At the same time, it’s exhilarating to know he can see through me like a thin, wet sheet. I’m laid bare without trying.
And it feels so, so…
“Good,” I blurt out, retreating to that stupid word again. “I feel good with you.”
“And I thought your word choice was getting better,” he scoffs in a disapproving tone, but I sense him grab my arm before I can flinch out of his reach. “If I loved you the way you want… You realize how wrong that would be, don’t you?”
I nod. More than wrong. His love would be taboo, one of my vocabulary words: so many crossed lines.
“And if I did, it would be for stupid, selfish reasons. Like the fact that you listen.” He laughs. “How pathetic is that? I’m a piece of shit who just needs someone to listen. And you’re too… I’m not allowed to call you beautiful.”
He’s pulling me closer, holding me tighter. My heart churns out a frantic warning. A cue he must pick up on, because his breathing quickens as if in tune, following the same harsh rhythm. We’re a symphony of destruction, composed more perfectly than Mozart could dream.
“And you’d know I’d hurt you, right?” he adds, his tone softer. Heavier. “Maybe I’d know it too, and I’d justify it like the ass I am. It would be the dumbest of excuses, too. Like the fact that you want to be an artist. Never tell someone that,” he scolds. “What you want to be. It lets them think they might have a say in shaping that desire. Don’t you ever give someone control over something so important.”
“Okay.” My eyelids flutter, desperate to lift, but I can’t. Not yet. Instead, I struggle to keep inhaling, committing this moment to memory. The smell. The taste. Everything.
“You are an artist,” he insists, making that word sound so damn important. A subtle change in inflection and a stupid term can suddenly mean the whole damn world. “And nothing inspires like heartbreak. But I’d write it off, wouldn’t I?” he adds as warm fingers creep over my hips, slipping beneath the hem of my shirt to scorch the flesh underneath. “I’d come up with some dumb excuse for why it doesn’t matter, even if I do break your heart. I’d lie. But I’d know. We both would. I’d spend the rest of my life knowing that I took advantage. No—don’t talk.” His thumb lands over my lips, sealing them shut the moment they part, and I finally wrench my eyes open.
He looks so tired, Thorny. Eyes like fire. No, like the ocean, a deep endless blue. I have a choice of whether or not I’ll drown. So I just stop swimming.
My lungs fill up and it’s bliss. Intoxicating bliss that conjures more stupid, dangerous confessions.
“Maybe I want it?” I whisper.
“Of course you do.” He laughs, sounding pained. “And that’s what makes me the fucking monster.”
The first kiss is slow. So, so slow. His lips match the trembling, hesitant pace of mine. It’s an awkward dance of him bending down while I strain on tiptoe. It’s nice in a way. And good. And all those other cliché fucking words.
But he’s the one who encouraged me to broaden my vocabulary. The way he grabs me is sinful, grasping hands and sneaking fingers. They creep below my waistband, stealing the air from my lungs with every inch gained.
Sex is hell, he said once. But he was lying then.
It’s drowning, being smothered by conflicting waves of logic and pleasure. The logic warns you to stop. You’re gasping too loudly. Moaning too brokenly. People might hear, and the consequences…
Fuck the consequences. Pleasure is the antidote to reality’s bitter pill. More, it urges. More panting. More touching. Feeling. Craving. Needing. More, more, more of everything.
It doesn’t matter if you wind up on a dusty wooden floor with your jeans twisted around your ankles and someone’s fingers sliding inside you. All you can do is arch backward, eyes on the ceiling, and whimper. You know it can’t last.
That’s the price you pay to feel alive.
And then you die.
Die.
Die.
Withdrawing his hand, he coaxes me onto my knees, brushing the curls from my face. His tongue is in my mouth, wrestling mine into submission as I claw at him with greedy, grabbing hands. Too low. I brush the cage of his zipper and he jerks back, grating a curse out.
“We can’t,” he says hoarsely.
Our gazes meet, wide and unfocused. Something in mine must make him stay and wrench my shirt over my head. Off. My bra follows and we’re chest to chest, skin on skin.
Oops.
“Fuck it,” he whispers when I tug at his waistband a second time. He bats my hands away and unfastens them himself, tugging the slacks down his legs.
Before I know it, he’s on the bed, sitting with his feet braced on the floor. I’m between his legs, letting him guide my head lower, lower…
Blow jobs are messy. I remember him saying that. A sloppy, uncoordinated mixture of searing flesh and wet heat—but it’s more than that. It’s moaning. Rough fingers tugging at my hair and my heart pounding so loud that it’s all I can hear.
Until he groans and my throat works to swallow, swallow, swallow.
“Fuck,” he grates between gasping breaths. He fall
s back against the wall, his head tilted toward the ceiling, his lips bitten and red. His fingers remain in my hair, twisting and stroking my sweat-soaked curls. It’s like he can’t let me go. Not yet. Even when it hurts us both. His hands have to be cramping, and my scalp is on fire. “Holy fucking… Fuck.”
I rest my head on his knee, closing my eyes as my body shudders, riding the frantic high of adrenaline. I’m crying, I realize. I’m laughing too, in broken, hysterical giggles. I’m coughing, feeling moisture running down my chin.
We’re dirty again, but my tears wipe the mess away. There, all clean.
Filthy, shamelessly clean.
“I’d be sick if I loved you,” Thorny says when our pulses slow and reality creeps back in, taking the form of muffled voices and laughter drifting from the hall. “Fucking sick. But at least…I’d fucking feel something. No one could blame me for that.”
There are fifty applicants in total. We’re herded into tiny groups of ten, and on the morning of the test, each group is shoved into a room and given a writing prompt.
Mine is simple, almost insultingly so: Write about your summer.
The answer I come up with isn’t so effortless. It takes me half the allotted time just to scribble one sentence. My seashell bracelet glints like a mocking reminder as I finally press my pen to the page.
This summer, I confronted myself.
And I hated her.
I studied her.
I learned what made her act the way she did.
It’s not complex: she’s a scared little girl in grown-up skin.
All she wants is to feel something: powerful, terrible. Anything.
But hunting for it doesn’t mean she has to scream. She could listen…
To powerful words written in ink and stories no one else was meant to hear.
She can learn to speak in ways that actually mean something. To whisper loud enough to be impossible to ignore.
She can learn to trust…
And I think I could love her, that crazy bitch.