Need

by K. I. Lynn

  A part of me hopes I broke it. That the next time I pull it out of there, it’ll be ruined.

  “Kira!”

  “I’ll meet you downstairs, Mom. Just give me a few.” I’m surprised by how steady my voice sounds. How ironically calm.

  Maybe kicking that painting had done more good than harm.

  There is a few seconds of hesitation from the other side of my door, and I can almost sense my mother’s relief at the fact that I’ve spoken to her.

  I haven’t really spoken more than a few words to anyone in weeks.

  “Okay . . . dinner is—”

  “Ready. Downstairs. I heard you, Mom,” I say in a deadened tone, eyes frozen on the carpet beneath my feet. “I’ll be down there in a few. I promise.”

  It takes me longer than a “few” to get myself downstairs. I have to wet the small towel I’d been using to dry my face over and over again in cold water, then press it to each eye for several minutes, repeating the process again and again.

  Eventually, the redness leaves my eyes. There’s nothing I can do about how pale I am, or the drawn look on my face, but it’s the best I’ve got.

  When I make it downstairs, I’m relieved as hell that it’s just me and my mother tonight. Steven probably has to work late.

  I avoid my mother’s stare and sit at the table as she serves us our food. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to actually eat much of it, but I’m going to try. For her sake. For mine, most of all.

  I can’t let Brayden keep destroying me like this. Just can’t.

  “Honey,” my mother whispers in a sad tone. She stops next to me as I stare down at the plate of food in front of me, and out the corner of my eye, I see her raise a hand to touch me. She hesitates, her hand in the air—

  Then, slowly, she places it on my shoulder. Tense.

  Waiting for me to jerk away.

  I don’t.

  And the tension leaves her in a sudden wave, her relief so powerful I feel it leaking into me through her touch.

  This is the first time I’ve willingly allowed her to touch me like this, comforting, in years. We never really went back to being the same after she married Steven.

  It was because I was still angry at her. Because part of me still blamed her decision to be with Steven for separating me from Brayden.

  Foolish girl. They didn’t separate us nearly as much as he has. Even if they had, I’m starting to realize that it might have been a good thing. A really, really good thing.

  Do I really want to spend the rest of my life in love with a guy who gives no fucks about breaking my heart over and over again?

  Yes, the pitiful little child inside me whines.

  “Honey, I wish you would tell me what’s got you like this. Who hurt you.”

  My mother’s concerned tone, the way she caresses my shoulder lovingly, brings a round of fresh tears to my eyes.

  I blink them back. Breathe through the incoming sobs. I will gain control of this. Somehow, I will glue together the shattered pieces of myself and go on with my life.

  He’s going to be happy with someone else.

  Don’t I deserve the same?

  Hell yes, I do, but to have that, I have to first get out of this major funk I’m in. I need to return to some form of normalcy.

  “It’s nothing, Mom. I don’t want to talk about it.” I pick up my fork and stare down at my food like it’s an obstacle course I’m determined to best.

  It is. Eating has become impossible for me. A basic human right. That’s how fucked up Brayden has left me.

  But I will not stay this way for much longer. I refuse.

  “Kira . . . I . . . we all know that this most likely has to do with a boy.” My mother continues rubbing my shoulder with that light, loving touch.

  I bite back the anger that surfaces. Logically, I get why she wants to know. I’d be worried about me too if I was her. It’s not her fault, and I can’t take this out on her, I remind myself. “Mom, I really don’t want to talk about this. Please.”

  “Okay.” She tucks my hair behind my ear and places her hand on my cheek. “But know this. You are beautiful, Kira. Beyond. Any guy would die to be with you. So, whoever this guy is, know that he’s a fucking moron, and one day he’s going to regret what he threw away.”

  My eyes fly up at her comment, surprise sending me into a minor shock. She’s smiling down at me, her dark gray eyes both sad and caring.

  My mouth hangs open for a few seconds, and I still can’t believe she just said that.

  I burst out laughing suddenly, shaking my head. “Can you repeat that please?”

  She smiles down at me and flips her auburn hair over her shoulder, clearly pleased she made me laugh. “I said he’s a fucking moron, whoever he is.”

  My laughter builds up again, and it takes a lot of willpower not to sound hysterical, but shit. I haven’t laughed in almost a month, and the irony of what she said, who it’s really aimed at, is too much. “Wow, Mom. Just . . . wow.”

  “What?” She raises an eyebrow, still smiling. “It’s true. You think I haven’t seen how most of the guys around town walk behind you, drooling and hissing like something out of the Walking Dead?”

  I snort at that, but can’t stop smiling.

  “Besides,” she does that hair flipping thing and moves to sit next to me at the table, “You might have your father’s eyes, but we both know who you really look like, and I’m gorgeous, honey.”

  She’s joking, sort of, but I can’t help but tease her back. “Easy there, conceited. Wouldn’t want the world to find out how you really feel about yourself, would you?”

  We share another laugh, and then it hits us both at the same time.

  Years of tension, years of distance, gone.

  Just like that.

  God, had I really kept my mom away, my mother, because I was angry about Brayden? Someone who told me I was his best friend but then dumped me into the category of “Another Girl Whose Head I Screwed With”?

  I swallow back a sudden wave of guilt. Great. Just what I need right now.

  I will never respect what my mother did when she came between Abigail and Steven, but it's definitely time to let it go.

  Had been for a while now.

  Like I said, it was obviously for the best. If I’m going to belong to anyone, it sure as hell isn’t going to be to someone that doesn’t belong to me.

  “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” my mother asks.

  “Nah.” I pick up my fork again and spear a small red potato. “It’s not worth it. Plus, like you said, he’s a fucking moron. I’m going to be okay without him.” I mean this. You have no idea how much I mean this.

  “Well . . . okay.” Mom picks up her own fork and gets to work on her food. “I do have some good news that’ll cheer you up. I heard back from Brayden today. He’ll be able to make it for Christmas this year.”

  My fork almost falls out of my hand. The bite of potato I’d taken goes absolutely dry in my mouth, and I almost can’t chew around it. I place my fork down on my plate and grab my glass of water, getting busy drinking it, hoping she doesn’t notice my reaction. “That’s . . . great.”

  I also hope she doesn’t catch the dark sarcasm in my tone.

  Fuck. Really? Christmas is in two weeks.

  Two.

  That means I have to get my act together by then, because I can’t let him come home and see me like this.

  Wait. Is he bringing the new girlfriend? Going to introduce her to the whole family?

  How the hell will I deal with that if it happens?

  My appetite's totally gone now, and the thought of forcing down more food is abhorrent to me, but I force myself to keep going.

  I pretend everything is all right.

  I engage in small talk about Christmas preparations with my mom.

  While the whole time, inside, I feel like the last tiny, sane part of me has just shriveled up and died.

  December 18, 2013

 
I miss you already.

  I stare down at that text, my finger hovering over the phone, motionless. Common courtesy dictates that I need to respond. My status as a boyfriend demands that I type out something equally as sweet. Reciprocity is important in a relationship, right?

  Not lying is, too, and every bit of me is screaming that if I type out those words, or anything remotely like them, I’ll be the biggest piece of shit in the universe.

  No, wait. I already earned that title a long time ago. A million times over.

  I’m suffocating, and it’s not the first time. It’s to be expected that I'm out of my element. I’m the guy who swore never to have a girl, stuck to that vow, and then suddenly decided to break it.

  Having a girlfriend was going to be one of the hardest things I’d ever done. I knew this going in. It’s been just over three months, though, and it’s not getting any easier. I’m giving it all I have, and it’s still not enough.

  That’s because what I have isn’t much.

  The car door opens behind me. “You coming in or not?” Ryans asks, leaning in to get his duffel bag out of the back.

  I stare up at the house. My father’s house. The same house I ran away from months ago, after having the best sexual experience of my life.

  One that didn’t even end in full-blown sex.

  One that has been fucking haunting my every second, sleeping or waking, since.

  The same one I keep replaying every time I’m with my girlfriend.

  Like I said, I’m a piece of shit.

  Ryan’s heading in there, to greet his sister, have his moment with her as is his due . . .

  I’ll have nothing. A simple “hey” if I’m really lucky.

  Fuck. I shouldn’t have come.

  “Nah. Need a second to talk to Amanda,” I lie to him. “Go on inside. I’ll catch up.”

  “Okay. Tell her I said hi.” Is it me, or does Ryan sound disbelieving?

  “Sure.” I don’t look up from my phone as he closes the door and makes his way toward the house. Eventually, even the sight of that text becomes too much.

  They say hating someone is like a poison in your system. Not true. Self-loathing is the true poison. You can escape the sight of someone you despise.

  There’s no escaping yourself.

  This is how I live my life. Second after miserable second, one never-ending day after the other.

  Trapped.

  Choking on all this emo-type bullshit.

  Enough of this. I came. Now, I have to deal with it.

  Sighing like a little bitch, I get out of the car and reach into the back for my bag. My phone is discarded into my pocket, where it’ll be easier to ignore.

  I still haven’t responded to Amanda.

  Every muscle is braced for straight-up battle when I walk into the house.

  Regardless, I’m utterly unprepared.

  Ryan’s voice drifts from the direction of the kitchen, along with Sonia’s and my father’s. I ignore all of it. Can’t pay attention to nothing but what stands before me.

  Kira’s frozen at the bottom of the stairs, expression impassive. Eyes on me. Pain explodes through every molecule in me. Sensation sears, leaving me shaken.

  My grip tightens around the handle of my bag. The other curls into a fist. My heart trips in my chest as I struggle to inhale and keep my shit together.

  Every second I stare, it hurts more and more.

  She’s so still. Like a beautiful, fragile statue bathed in the sunlight streaming in from the bay windows on the second floor landing.

  And that’s what kills me the most—the fragility. It doesn’t matter how tall she’s standing, or how stoic her expression is, it screams out at me, battering into the part of me that aches the most.

  She’s thinner. Her skinny jeans are just a bit looser on her than they should be. The light gray long-sleeve she’s wearing is, too. It’s probably no more than five pounds, but it's enough to make a difference on her petite frame.

  It still hits me like a fucking planet landing on my head.

  Everything else about her is the same.

  My heart pounds in my chest, the beat of it a roar in my head that I want to deny with everything I have.

  Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

  Kira breaks our stare first. With a lithe hop, she’s off the stairs and on the first floor with me.

  She has no plans of staying there. A spin on the newel post and she's facing the kitchen, stepping away from me.

  My duffel bag falls to the floor.

  Traitorous feet take two steps in her direction.

  I shoot my hand out, grabbing onto her much smaller one. Stopping her. Bringing her back in my direction.

  Kira tries to yank her hand away.

  I don’t let her.

  No, I can’t.

  She refuses to turn toward me, so I’m forced to stare at the back of her head, the glimpse of her beautiful profile peeking out from behind her hair.

  I’m not thinking about my girlfriend, not thinking about what separates us as I tug gently on her hand, silently urging her to give me that.

  Just another look.

  An acknowledgement of my fucking existence.

  She doesn’t, and I don’t blame her. I don’t. I’ve torn us apart in the most brutal way possible. Doesn’t matter that it’s what I had to do. Amputating your leg might save your life . . . but you’re still amputating your fucking leg. You’ll still have to live without it the rest of your days.

  There’s no way Kira will ever hate me as much as I hate myself. It’s the only consolation I have. That and the feel of her small hand in my own.

  It’s cold. As cold as her eyes. Without meaning to, I start rubbing it with my own, trying to bring some warmth into her.

  Into us both.

  And that’s when she does it. She lets her defenses slip for one, stuttering breath.

  A breath that is just as labored as mine are.

  An exhale that screams accusations at me, letting me hear and see everything I’ve done to her.

  Everything I’ve done to myself.

  I’m done. It’s all stripped from me. Self-control dangles on the brink of collapse. It takes every damn bit of myself to stop my body from engulfing hers, from bringing her in as close as I need her and then bringing her in even closer.

  My skin burns with hunger. I grind my teeth, shaking with restraint, and let my forehead fall to her shoulder.

  She gasps, the sound so low, and it hits me straight in the cock.

  I groan, rubbing my forehead against the material covering her shoulder, sniffing her like the desperate motherfucker I am.

  Don’t take more than this. You can’t.

  But I want her more than I want to live. I want to place her hand on my chest, let her feel what she’s doing to my heart. What she always does to it. I want to slide that hand lower, down to the part of me that is always calling for her. That part that is always swollen and ready to be hers, no matter how many fucking pussies I slam it into.

  I tighten my hold on her hand, and it has to be painful at this point. My lips pull back from my teeth as another rough sound leaves me. I want to bite her, that’s how bad I want her right now. Zero to fucking sixty within two seconds of being within ten feet of her.

  The most screwed up part to all of this . . . This, right here, is the most alive I’ve felt in months. The pain of having her close is somehow a million times better than not having her at all.

  Her voice. That’s all that’s missing. The sweet way she sometimes speaks to me; the way she usually puts me in my place, her smartass comments always on point.

  She hasn’t even said my name. Not even a word.

  I deserve this, I do. Doesn’t mean I can deal with it. “Kira, please—” Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m about to beg her for. Her pretty eyes on me? Her arms around me? Her hands on my aching body?

  I get none of that. Instead, Kira turns just enough to put her other hand against my shoulder and push m
e back.

  Normally, there’s no way Kira would be strong enough to move me. Especially if I don’t want to. But this is Kira, the girl that always ran to me, always sought me out, and she’s pushing me away.

  I stumble back, my brain misfiring, refusing to accept the wrongness of what just happened.

  She takes advantage, pulls her hand out of mine, and continues toward the kitchen.

  Without looking at me.

  I’m going to kill somebody.

  The fucked up fact is that the only one that deserves it is myself, and there’s no one else in the house that even comes close to deserving my rage as much as I do.

  “Brayden, there you are.”

  Except him.

  I turn away from my father and bend to pick up my duffel. When I straighten, he’s there. Standing at the entry to the foyer, in his perfectly ironed khakis, his light blue polo, blond hair short and neat, his green eyes staring at me expectantly.

  The only thing I share with him is our eye color.

  I have my mother’s coloring, and even though people say there’s some resemblance to my father, I look mostly like her. I am mostly like her, in every way.

  My father is the perfect Stepford dad. Inside and out. Polished sophistication on the outside. I’m not even going to touch what’s on the inside. As angry as I am at him, I refuse to continue to barrage my own father, even mentally.

  “Come into the kitchen with us, son.”

  I’m his son but, somehow, it still irks me when he calls me that. Just rubs me the wrong way. We've never been close. “I need to rest.” I turn away from him, bag in hand, and head to the stairs.

  “Join the rest of your family for a few minutes. You can rest after.”

  I tense at the authoritative tone, but refuse to respond. I don’t trust myself to. If I do, it’ll be something along the lines of: You tore my family away from me.

  Ryan would have always been a brother to me. No matter what. But I lost the constant connection with my mom.

  I lost Kira.

  I guess I really do hate him for that. There’s no helping it.