by Jay McLean
She stopped suddenly, her eyes narrowing at me. “Have you ever jumped on a bed?”
“What?” I asked, completely confused.
She stepped closer, her hand curling around my neck. “I can’t imagine you as a kid,” she said, almost in a whisper. Her head tilted, her gaze locked on mine, pulling me deeper into the depths of her thoughts. She pressed her waist to my chest and looked down at me, tracing a finger down my cheek. “Or when I do, I just picture you to be sad. Were you a sad kid, Nate?”
Sighing, I placed my hands on her bare thighs, my thumb skimming the hem of my boxer shorts she was wearing. “I don’t really know,” I murmured. “Maybe. But I didn’t deserve to be sad. You did.”
Her sigh matched mine as she released me and dropped to her knees so we were eye to eye. “I noticed a lot when I lived on the streets,” she said.
My eyebrows rose. “Oh yeah?” I asked. She didn’t speak about it often, so when she did, I made sure to listen.
“People like to give advice where advice isn’t asked for, or needed. Like, if I say I’m tired, someone will say, ‘Go sleep.’ And the same if I say I’m hungry.” Her tone lowered. “‘Well, why don’t you go eat?’” She rolled her eyes. “If I could sleep, I would. If I could eat, I would. And we’re so competitive. I can’t say I’m hungry without someone telling me they’re hungrier, followed by a detailed explanation of how long it’s been since they’ve eaten. Life isn’t a contest for who suffers more. Or, at least, it shouldn’t be.”
I just stared, unable to look away.
She reared back and eyed me sideways. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I blinked, pulling me from my trance, and motioned toward the bed. “So, jumping on the bed, huh?”
Her smile widened. “I’m sure there are more fun things to do on a bed.”
After an initial moment of shock, I cleared my throat and took a step back. Bailey’s shoulders slumped, her gaze dropping. “Why do you do that?” she whispered.
Even though I knew the answer, still I asked, “Do what?”
“You always pull away whenever…”
I rubbed my hand across my jaw and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at the rug she’d taken three hours to choose, now covering the concrete floor. “I just don’t want to do anything to pressure you. Physically, I mean.”
The bed dipped when she scooted closer to me, her soft hands wrapping around my arm, pulling and urging me to face her. She waited until I was looking at her before speaking. “I think about it, you know? What it would be like to be with you. To feel your weight on top of me, you between my legs, replacing the memory of what they did to me.” She glanced away. “I want to feel that, Nate. I want to feel you.”
I swallowed nervously, the sound loud and pathetic.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” she said, her final words mingling with her laughter. She didn’t give me a chance to respond before gripping my arm tighter and pulling me with her as she lay down on her back, her hair splayed on the pillow.
I leaned on my forearm, half my body covering hers, and within seconds, I was on her, my mouth covering hers, her hands in my hair and mine under her shirt. She pulled back to catch her breath. I kept my lips on her—from her mouth to her jaw, down to her neck. I moved a hand to her waist while my lips skimmed her collarbone, smiling against her skin when her fingers tightened in my hair, her body writhing beneath me. “Nate?” she breathed out.
I hummed a response, my lips busy making their way down her body while my hand moved higher, my thumb meeting her breast.
“Nate,” she repeated, her tone more urgent.
My eyes snapped to hers, my head lifting, everything inside me freezing. “Too far?” I asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “It’s not that.”
I pushed up on my elbow and gave her space to breathe. “Then what’s wrong?”
“I love my room,” she said.
I tried not to show my annoyance. “That’s good. I’m glad.” I sat up and adjusted myself quickly.
“But it just seems so final,” she whispered. She sniffed once, causing me to look at her. Tears filled her eyes and for a moment, I wondered how it was possible to go from pure need to whatever the hell was happening.
“It’s not,” I assured her. “It’s just until it’s safe enough for me to get you out of here.”
“And then what happens?” she asked, her voice cracking as she sat up.
“What do you mean?”
She leaned into my touch, her glazed eyes locked on mine. “With me and you, and us? What happens to us?”
There was a sudden ache in my chest, emotional, physical, and so damn powerful, my hand automatically went to cover it. My eyes drifted shut, my breath catching as I waited for the pain to subside.
“Are you okay?” Bailey asked, her hands on my shoulders, her head dipped so she could see me.
I nodded slowly, trying to hide my body’s reaction to her proximity. “I’m fine.” I placed my hand on her leg and looked up at her, faking a calmness in my words when I said, “I don’t know what the right thing to say is, Bailey.”
“The truth, Nate.”
“The truth is I don’t know.”
She nodded as if my words gave her some form of clarity. “When it’s safe, and I’m out, will I still be able to see you?”
I didn’t need to respond, she already knew the answer.
“I don’t know what I’m more afraid of,” she said, laying back down and taking me with her. “Being stuck here forever or never seeing you again.”
There was a desperation in her words, one that matched the way she looked at me. “I don’t know either, Bailey.”
She stared at me a long time before looking up at the ceiling, her hands on her stomach, fingers tapping. When I lay next to her and placed my hand on top of hers, she smiled, her eyes moving to mine. Then she chewed her lip while her hands reached up, fingers lacing through my hair when she pulled me toward her waiting mouth. We kissed long and slow as if we had all the time in the world and nothing and no one could take that away from us. Because in our minds, the lies we lived created the perfect balance between chaos and calm. And while the chaos could kill us, the calm had us aching for one more second, one more moment of self-destruction.
24
Bailey
Nate glanced at me quickly before returning to the mirror in front of him. He lifted his chin and bit down on his bottom lip, his focus back on the razor as it ran across his jaw.
I watched him, fascinated, while I sat on the bathroom counter.
“What?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, his eyes back on mine.
I reached out and ran the back of my fingers across his jaw, trying hard not to frown. “You look so young,” I told him, and it wasn’t a lie. I’d never seen him clean-shaven before. There was always a few days’ growth, and when he did shave, it was a quick run with an electric razor. But now, his eyes seemed clearer, his jaw more defined. He looked like a kid—a kid who didn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders and wasn’t responsible for someone’s life. My life. I tried to smile though I’m not sure if it showed. “You look so handsome.”
“Yeah?” he asked, looking away and concentrating on the task at hand. “Maybe I’ll shave more often.”
“You don’t have to.”
“If you like it, I will.”
Somehow, with those simple words, he managed to turn my frown into a genuine smile. I kept watching him while he finished shaving, my gaze skimming his bare chest, down to the dips of his abs and paused for a moment at the towel wrapped around his waist. I hesitated, my cheeks growing warm, before looking further down at the bulge. I chewed my lip, my eyes focused on the outline until he cleared his throat.
He smirked. “You okay?”
I nodded and looked away. “So this thing tonight…” I said, hoping to change the subject. For months (I assume) we’d been sleeping in the same bed, and the most
we’d done is kiss and the occasional grope. I think he felt the pressure of going further more than I did.
He washed his razor under the running tap and shook it out a couple times before trashing it. “What about it?” he asked, wiping his face with a towel. He stood in front of me, close enough that I could smell him, but far enough that he wasn’t touching me.
“What is it again?”
He shrugged lazily. “It’s a preppy party for some rich kid who got into some fancy college. I guess his parents are throwing some kind of show-off party, and while the parents mingle and compare notes on how great their kids are, the kids gather and get fucked up on whatever I supply them,” he said simply.
“So why do you have to go? And why are you shaving for it?”
“Because I have to fit in, I guess. And none of the others can get away with it.” He took my hand, and guided me down from the counter, then led me to my room.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and continued to watch him dress—he pulled on boxers under the towel, towel off, pants, followed by a shirt. As usual. He dressed more formally, though, wearing dress pants and a dress shirt to go with his new clean look. “Tie or no tie?” he asked, lifting one in his hand.
The momentary act of normalcy had my heart skipping a beat, and I almost let myself forget who he was, who I was, and who we were together. “I don’t know,” I said, my gaze dropping when my voice cracked, giving away my vulnerability. “You look nice either way.”
I felt him approaching before I saw his bare feet stop a few inches in front of mine. “What’s up? You okay?” He placed his hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a temperature.”
“I’m fine,” I said, moving away from his touch.
Nate’s sigh was almost deafening compared to the silence I’d been so accustomed to. He slumped down next to me, his arm brushing mine. “What’s going on, Bailey?”
“Nothing,” I lied. It was pathetic. I was pathetic. “It’s dumb.”
“So tell me anyway,” he said, his arm around my waist, pulling me into him.
I cleared my throat, trying to focus on the safety of his touch. “Will there be girls at this party?”
He chuckled, and just like that, a rage built somewhere in the pit of my stomach. I turned to him and pushed on his shoulders until he was flat on his back. His yelp of surprise did nothing to stop me from climbing on top of him, straddling his waist and thumping my fists on his chest, which only made him laugh harder.
I narrowed my eyes, my lips pursed. “It’s not funny,” I said, my fist raised.
He grabbed my wrist as it came down on him, his laughter dying in the air. “Bailey,” he said, his tone stern.
I sat up a little and raised my chin. “What?”
His eyes seemed to soften as he looked up at me, slowly releasing his hold on my wrist. One of his hands landed on my thigh, the other reaching up and moving the hair away from my eyes. “There will be girls there,” he said, his voice soft and his eyes on mine. “But it doesn’t matter because none of them are you.”
*
His words should’ve been comforting. They weren’t. All I could think about was that he was out there, looking the way he did, and I was in here, feeling the way I did.
I went to the bathroom, like I’d done so many times before, sat on the floor and faced the corner of the room. The tiles (which I’m sure were once blue, now gray) were small, penny-sized hexagons, perfect for counting. And count them I did. Daily. For hours. Until my eyes felt like they were about to bleed or my stomach rumbled, and I’d take a break, eat, stare at a different wall, and come back to it. The most I’d counted was 2,684. The least, 2,463. But I’d never counted the same number twice, which I guess is good because it kept me going back for more. Crazy? Maybe. But to me—it was the only thing that kept me sane.
Tiny had been around more at night helping to make “my place” more livable. More comfortable. It didn’t really help, but I smiled. I pretended to care, and I did it for Nate because I could see the way he looked at me, hopeful, as if what he was doing was helping me heal, saving me. So I put up the front, and I smiled and nodded and picked out a bed I didn’t care about to go with the rug I didn’t care about and the lamps to match both the things I didn’t fucking care about.
I huffed out a frustrated breath when I realized I’d lost count and started again.
Three times I started over before I gave in to the inevitable and accepted defeat. My mind was racing, filled with so many thoughts I couldn’t focus on one, let alone thousands of numbers.
When Nate had said that he didn’t know how long he’d be gone for, I almost told him that it didn’t matter. It’s not like I could tell if he’d been gone an hour or five. I didn’t say anything, though. I just nodded, told him to be safe, allowed him to kiss me on the forehead and then watched him climb the steps like I’d done too many times to count.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and grabbed his discarded shirt from the bathroom floor before climbing into bed with it. Pathetic, I know, but I couldn’t deny that I missed him. Every second he was gone felt like an eternity.
Tear after tear fell from my eyes.
Sob after sob fell silent from my lips.
Call it love. Call it longing. Call it plain old loneliness.
I may not know what it was—these deep dark feelings I had to keep secret—the only thing I knew was that I feared every single one of them.
Even love.
25
Bailey
I don’t know how I ended up back on the bathroom floor, curled in a ball, gripping Nate’s T-shirt like my life depended on it.
His breath was warm against my ear, hand shaking my shoulder as he whispered my name over and over, an urgent lilt in his tone that had my eyes snapping open and my body upright the second I came to. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, hand to his heart as he sat back on his heels.
I ignored the pounding in my head from getting up too fast and looked around, panic welling in my chest. “What’s wrong?”
“You scared the shit out of me, Bai.” His voice rose. “What the fuck are you doing asleep on the bathroom floor?”
I shrugged, shrinking into myself. Stupidly, I pointed to the wall and murmured, “I must have passed out counting the tiles.”
His brow bunched, his gaze moving to where I was pointing. “The what?” he huffed.
“The tiles,” I whispered. “I count them when you’re not home. It helps…” I trailed off.
His features changed from confusion to understanding, and he looked over at the wall, his eyes moving quickly from side to side as if he was able to count in a few seconds what typically took me hours. Then his head dropped forward, a long sigh leaving him. “I’m sorry,” he said, blindly reaching for me.
I met him half way, my fingertips grazing his before I settled my palm in his waiting one. And when he looked up, his gaze locked on mine, I saw the darkness around his eyes, the redness surrounding his pupils and the agony in his stare. “Let’s just go to bed, okay?” he said. “I just want to hold you.” So I let him help me to stand, let him lead me to the bed, and when he stood on the side of the single piece of furniture I spent the last three years dreaming of and yearning for, I realized how stupid I’d been. Nate—he didn’t have to do any of the things he’d done for me, from the moment he found me, to the moment he saved me, to now.
He owed me nothing.
And I owed him my life.
Stepping forward, I flattened my hand on his chest and looked up at him. He was so tall, so intimidating. “I missed you tonight,” I told him truthfully. “I mean, more than I normally do.”
“When I got home, and you weren’t in bed…” His voice cracked and he pulled away, just enough to search my gaze. “…And then I found you on the bathroom floor, and I thought…”
“Nate…”
It was almost as if everything left him at once—the air in his lungs, the fear in his heart, even the will to stand. He inha
led deeply as he sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes drifting shut when he wrapped his arms around me, holding me close.
There was nothing between us now. Nothing but a moment I didn’t realize was defining until it was it too late.
With a shaky breath, he pulled me closer, my legs between his and when he looked up, dark, sad eyes stared into mine. “It’s bad enough I can’t be around to protect you, but fuck, Bailey, I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you.” His words felt so real, so raw and so full of anguish and in that moment, there was absolutely nothing more I wanted in my life than Nate DeLuca. And when his eyes began to fill, and he dropped his gaze, hoping I hadn’t seen his agony, I ignored the voices in my head, yelling and screaming that he wasn’t enough, and that he never could be.
“Look at me, Nathaniel.”
He rubbed his eyes against my shirt, sniffing once before looking up, and when he did, vulnerability flashed in his eyes, a moment of weakness his pride wasn’t strong enough to hide. He started to look away, but I held his head in my hands, forcing him to face me. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” he asked, attempting to move away from my touch.
I held on to him tighter. “Don’t you dare hide your pain or your fear.” Breaking our stare, I added, “Look around you, Nate. Every second of every day, that’s all that surrounds me. Pain and Fear.” I switched my focus back to him. “I’m in the safest place I could possibly be, and you made sure of that. But you—you’re out there every day, and every day it’s a risk. I spend minute after minute worried about you, wondering if you’re going to come home to me.” I leaned down, watching his eyes drift shut in anticipation of my touch. “Don’t hide it,” I whispered against his lips as my hands lowered, my fingers toying with the top button of his shirt. “I feel your pain. I live your fear.”
His kiss was calm, his touch was not, and as I fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, his mouth moved to my neck, my shoulder, my collarbone. The air felt thick in my lungs, as heavy as the weight of our repressed feelings. When I was done with the buttons, I pushed his shirt off his shoulders and laced my fingers through his hair, gripping tight and making him look at me. “We can suffer together, Nate.”