Men were different to me now. A species not to be trusted. . . to be avoided. I could handle Woodrow—a boy who intrigued me in so many different ways. I couldn’t handle a man like Ville, three hundred pounds of authority; his shadow alone could push me to the ground, so hard, I may never get back up.
His heavy weight hobbled closer. He smiled at me, and it made my skin crawl. It was probably nothing to do with him and all to do with me and my new feelings. Though, that said, I absolutely hated how he’d manhandled his son, and as a result, it was an effort to keep my face neutral.
Ville’s heavy hand left a bruising touch on my shoulder, and I couldn’t help but cringe as his calloused hand rubbed my softer skin.
“Have a good evening. Don’t be loud. . . and don’t stay out of bed too late.”
“We won’t.” I kept my reply short and sweet, which was how I felt while standing in his oppressing shadow.
Happy with my answer, he left. The wooden door clicked shut, and I almost felt like it pushed me deeper into the room. . . but I was happy to venture, creating a bigger space between us. I wandered, taking in the details of a room—a room that didn’t look like it belonged to a boy of seventeen.
Shelves lined the green-painted walls—a color choice of his mother, no doubt. Toys lined the shelves, nothing worth money or significance. Tatty dolls that looked like they were probably stolen from his sister’s room.
I stretched high, my loaned dress from Wynter rising as I clutched a plastic blonde from a shelf above my head. She looked just like the others, uncared for.
Silent steps crept up behind me; his shadow darkened the already dark room, lit only by a lava lamp and the pale moon peeping in from outside.
I spun around, startled to see him so close we were practically joined as one. Surprised by his silence, I dropped the doll to the floor. Her hard body belted the ground, making her appear heavier than she actually was. Her head rolled from her body, an inch or two to the left, prevented from going further by her matted strands of hair.
“I’m sorry.” I quickly retrieved the doll and her head, trying in vain to reattach it before standing back to my full height.
He stretched out his hand, not to help me from the ground, but to steal his possession back. Taking her from my hand, he made one attempt to reattach her head. . . and failed. He tossed her into the trash without care.
Then, he moved away, in nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms hanging low on his hips. His body was lean, almost starved, the opposite of how I was feeling.
“I’m sorry,” I voiced once more. I stood but kept my head low, emphasizing my apology.
He didn’t answer. He barely ever talked. He was a mystery.
I stared up at the shelves, twiddling my thumbs as I silently vowed not to touch anything else. Each doll was once pretty blonde. Generic beauty. White. Nothing like me, at all.
“You collect dolls?”I asked, trying to force a conversation.
“They’re Nessie’s.” He adjusted his throat with careful fingers as he spoke. “Best we don’t tell her about that one.” A smile crept onto his lips, making him even more enchanting as he dropped into the computer chair. The look of disgust on his face told me he could still scent his father there. Sweat and fading alcohol.
“We can probably fix her head with a little glue?” I suggested.
“Nessie ain't going to notice. Have you seen how many others are in her room? Or this one, for that matter.”
“There are a lot,” I agreed. She probably wouldn’t notice.
He laughed a little, covering his throat again. My eyes followed his hand.
“I’m sorry.” I immediately diverted my gaze. “I don’t mean offense.”
“I don’t feel all that offended. Not with you.” His words told me how much his mother’s comments hurt him. He took a sip of water from an almost empty bottle on his desk, spinning the chair to reach it.
The dolls watched with judging eyes as he drank. He spun the chair back to me, looking at me, as if he were a king on a throne, but not like I was some peasant not worthy of his time.
A smile lit up his face.
I took the smallest of steps towards his chair. “Do you use this for gaming?” A bob of my head had my curls falling into my eyes and onto his naked chest, tickling his ears when I leaned in and motioned to the screen.
His breathing stalled, and I hated that I potentially caused him more pain.
His eyes and hand moved in harmony, to the space where my hair still lingered. His fingers weaved through the thickness, like his sister’s did last night as I cuddled her to sleep, and yet, it felt so different.
“I don’t. I hardly use it, at all. The computer was my father’s; he still uses it to send some messages; I have no idea why it’s in here. Maybe he doesn’t want my momma to see what he’s talking about. Occasionally, he’ll play games when he’s done, just so he doesn’t have to do anything else.”
