“Eight.”
“That sounds like enough time.”
“Oh, does it?” I raise my eyebrows. Adoration must be plastered over every inch of me as I stare into his eyes. Something I would have vehemently objected to just a week ago, but now it feels right to leave it there. “Enough time for what?”
He shows rather than tells me, leaving a line of kisses trailing along my midriff until he reaches my lower abdomen, where he pauses. My hands, splayed either side of my head, curl into loose fists as his breath teases me.
“I think we need a shower.”
It’s not until I stand I see the reason. Smudges of blood streak down my thighs. Not a period, I haven’t had one of those since starting on the depo provera injection. Instead, a testament to how roughly he used my body yesterday. One that leaves a lingering trace of unease curling in my belly.
“You’ll need to go home to change,” I say, not bothering to frame it as a question. “So, I’ll take that shower alone. The hot water tank barely holds enough for the three of us.”
Zach pulls me forward, kissing me on the cheek when I turn my head away at the last second. “Are we good?”
His voice is smaller than usual, and I can’t look at him as I nod. But his hands gently land on either side of my face, forcing it back until I meet his eyes.
“Are we good?”
Heat radiates off his body and my frame instinctively leans towards it as I nod again. “We’re good. I’ll see you in class.”
He kisses me, the touch light at first, but moving deeper the longer we hold the embrace. I don’t want to let him go, to face the real world, and cling to him until he gently eases away.
“See you in class,” he agrees, turning to escape via his preferred route out the window.
My sense of contentment holds until he’s out of sight. Then I remember I’ve lost my sister and missed a day of school. One shouldn’t tie so neatly into the other, but they do.
It’s not until I finish breakfast and rinse my plate in the sink that I remember the video I uploaded and then it’s just as an aside. Sometime yesterday, my brain moved on from that worry and good riddance. If the worst happens, maybe I can look forward to a long career in porn.
At school, Zach meets me outside homeroom to walk me to my first class, despite his being in another wing. When I emerge from calculus, he’s waiting to escort me to our joint English session and from there, he walks me to the common room, holding my hand where anyone can see.
He stays during my free period, helping me with the English text that I’m still struggling to understand, let alone master. Alternating between tutoring and making me laugh, so my brain relaxes enough to absorb the new information.
Even with him beside me, or perhaps fuelled by that, I hear whispers before me, silence as I pass, and resumed chatter the moment I’ve gone by. It’s unnerving. My prime directive is to stay out of sight and be unremarkable. Now, I might as well be wearing a gigantic neon sign above my head.
During the lunch break, I duck into the loos, choosing the cubicle furthest from the door. Since the morning started with spotting, I wore a pad, but it’s stayed clean, so I dispose of it. Whatever damage happened yesterday, it’s healed.
Given how attentive Zach has been, it’s a surprise when he drops me home, then immediately departs. As I sit on the couch, trying to decide how I feel about stumbling into an actual, honest-to-god boyfriend, the doorbell rings with a delivery.
Finley peers at the tag with rising hope, then scowls and throws the box to me when she reads my name.
Inside the box is makeup. Foundations, creams, toners, seven palettes sporting a rainbow of eye shadows and blush, and more lipsticks and glosses than one person should feel comfortable owning.
Rosa casts a curious glance over the medley and sniffs. “If that’s what an hour of work gets you, I might have to move my business online.”
The card says it’s from Zach, but nothing more. I text him a thank you that I rewrite a dozen times to strike out the anxiety that leaks through the words.
In five minutes, he texts back,“Glad you like it. There’s someone coming to show you how to put it on and a hairdresser to tidy your hair.”
“Tidy your hair? For real?” Finley snorts and returns to being happy with her sexual orientation. “What next? He’s going to send you a meal plan and give you a gym membership? Maybe send you clothes to wear each morning.”
“At least he’s paying,” Rosa says, sucking the last noodles from her stir fry out of the container. “Wait until you meet a guy who wants to dictate what you wearandexpects you to pay for all of it.”
Despite Finley’s disdain, she hangs around to observe as the beautician and hairdresser get to work. There are so many long explanations that I’m glad the makeup lady leaves behind a detailed list of instructions.
At least the haircut is one and done. A fact the hairdresser is keen to impress on me. “Just shower and put a little mousse in to hold its shape and you’re good to go. No blow drying needed.”
As I show them out of the flat, the pampered feeling overtakes my anxiety. My long stares into the mirror are prompted more by shock than vanity.
