He’s sitting on the edge of his side of the bed now, facing away from me. I glance beyond him to the window. It’s stopped snowing, though it’s getting darker now. The clock in the room tells me it’s after 5pm.
“I didn’t know they made lemon protein bars,” I say, plucking at the edge of the wrapper. I do feel shaky and weak. I know I should eat. But I can’t seem to muster up the appetite to actually do it.
“I didn’t either,” Curse says. “Until now. Eat it,” he orders me. “I know you like lemon.”
“You know I like lemon…”
He doesn’t elaborate. But then it hits me. The granita we always shared. Sugar and the sharp, exquisite tang of lemon.
“You like it, too,” feeling oddly defensive for some reason.
Through the tight fabric of his black T-shirt, I see tension enter the carved muscles of his back.
“I’ve always hated lemon.”
I gawk at him.
“What?” I ask, wondering if he’s gaslighting me or if he literally doesn’t remember. “You always split those bowls of lemon granita with me!”
“Because that’s the flavour you wanted,” he says. “And every time I tried to make it clear that you should eat it all, you looked at me with those big, wounded eyes. Like I’d just broken your goddamn heart.”
He finally twists to look at me and makes a mirthless huff of sound that no reasonable person could call a laugh.
“Yeah,” he says “Those eyes.” His lips part slightly, and then he shakes his head so fiercely that I nearly miss his next words. “Those fucking eyes.”
I don’t know what my eyes are doing currently. Probably registering the awkward embarrassment of realizing I’ve forced the boy that I was totally in love with to eat serving after serving of a dessert he couldn’t stand.
And there’s hurt there, too. A sudden, scorching rush of it. Because those little moments of lemony sweetness had felt like a shared pleasure between us. Something that connected us. Something that we had in common. And in reality, the entire time, it had been a chore for him to do it. I’d been the only one to enjoy it.
How stupid was I?
Well, I was six. I’m twenty-eight now, but I still feel just as ridiculous, holding this bar he bought me because he knows I like lemon. This bar he wants me to eat so I don’t pass out on him and cause him even more trouble.
With numb fingertips, I open the package. There’s a pale yellow coating on the bar, sweet and lemony on the outside, crumbly and more vanilla-flavoured on the inside. But I barely taste it, forcing the chalky texture of it down my throat, over and over, until the bar is gone. I cough slightly, then rise from the bed, mumbling something about needing water.
In the bathroom, I fill one of the cups on the counter and chug it. I’m thirstier than I realized, and the water feels good on the way down. But once it all hits my stomach, queasiness spreads through me. I don’t throw up again, at least. Thank God for small mercies.
When I place the empty cup back down, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and grimace. At least all that dark, streaky makeup is off now. I don’t look anything close to normal, but I look ever-so-slightly more like myself. But I’m paler than usual, and that’s saying something, because I’m not someone who has any hint of a tan to begin with. My hair looks pretty bad, caked with hairspray, and I wince when I try to get my fingers through it.
Without being consciously aware of even making a decision, I strip out of my clothing and leave them in a soft black pool on the floor. Shivering slightly, I hustle over to the shower, starting it up. It takes a second for the water to heat up, but once it does, I step fully into the glass stall.
It’s only then I notice that I haven’t even closed the bathroom door. If Curse comes here now, he’ll see me naked through the steaming glass. But the doorway is empty, and no matter how many times I glance over there while I shower, that doesn’t change.
It’s good he doesn’t want to spy on me in here. It’s good I don’t have to worry about that from him.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. But a pathetic part of me, a part of me still burdened with a squishy, six-year-old heart, whispers that it’s because he can’t fucking stand me. He withstood the annoyance of me clutching needily at his arm in my sleep the same way he forced himself to eat that lemon granita all those years ago. He feels sorry for me. And now he probably doesn’t even want to look at me.
Well, at least the next time he looks at me I’ll be clean. I wash my hair twice with the drying blue shampoo in the shower. There’s no conditioner or body wash. The shampoo must be one of those shower gel/shampoo combo deals, so I wash my body with it, scrubbing everywhere until my skin feels raw and my fingers are wrinkled. When I’m done, I take the only full-sized towel and quickly dry off before wrapping it around myself like a short strapless dress. Because I’ve left the door open, the mirror isn’t too steamed up, and I see Curse the moment he steps into the room.
I retreat towards the sink in surprise, holding the towel tightly to my body.
“Jesus! What now? I didn’t puke again,” I tell him. “I just took a shower.”
Pretty sure I don’t need a chaperone for that. And he must at least partially feel the same way, because he didn’t make an appearance in here until I was done.
“I know,” he says. “I heard you turn the water off. Now I’m going to take one.”
“Great,” I snap. I need to be out of this room. But he catches my arm when I attempt to walk past him. The dark strength of his fingers splays over my scrawny bicep. I catch a glimpse of letters tattooed on his knuckles – F L O R E.
