I’m up like a shot. Ten feet away from Miguel, I’m buttoning up my pants, unable to catch my heavy breaths as I border on hyperventilating.
Miguel is left sitting on the couch, his eyes glazed with arousal even as his lips part in confusion. His hair is a tousled mess and a flush stains his cheeks. There’s a damp spot on his jeans.
"I-I need to get home," I manage to get out.
Miguel runs a hand through his hair, still looking dazed as if he just walked off a rollercoaster. "Okay. Let me get my keys."
In the car, we’re quiet on the fifteen-minute drive to my place. I keep my eyes trained out the passenger window. By the time he pulls the car to a stop in front of my building, a heavy weight nearly crushes my chest.
How could I be so terrible?
What kind of person fantasizes about ruining someone good?
Have I become as fucked up as the people who’ve taken me in over the years?
Did they twist me into a version of their dysfunction and perversion?
Miguel rakes a hand through his hair. "I’m so sorry if I pushed you too far." His tone is tortured as he openly beats himself up.
I swallow hard. "No, it felt good, it’s just... "
I’m not good for you.
You deserve better than me.
All I want is for a monster to fuck me, to claim me, even if that means hurting you.
My eyes turn up to the ceiling of the car as I blink back the sting of hot, shameful, confused tears.
"Oh God, I’m so sorry." Miguel starts to reach for me then fists his hands, stopping himself.
"It’s not you." I shake my head, wiping away the couple tears that slipped out. "It’s me. I’m not... I don’t know how to do this."
I don’t know how to be open. I don’t know how to be normal. I don’t know how to connect.
"Shh, it’s okay. I promise it’s okay," he soothes.
Turning to look at him, I’m ready to confess.
"I don’t think I can do this."
His face turns to stone. "Evie." He speaks slowly. "I pushed things too far too fast, and I’m sorry. We can go slow again. Don’t give this up."
"You deserve someone better, someone normal. You’ve already been so sweet to me, and we’ve gone so slow. By now, any other girl would have?—"
"I don’t want any other girl," he cuts me off. Then, taking my hand, he forces me to meet his eye. "Please, don’t make any decisions right now. Go rest. I’ll study for my next exam, then we’ll talk on Thursday after my test. We’ll get ice cream and talk or not talk about whatever you want. Okay?"
I sniffle, my heart breaking. I can’t deny him that. It’s the least I can do. So I mutely nod. Hope sparks then glimmers in his eye, accompanied by a grateful, lopsided smile.
This time he doesn’t walk me to my door, sensing I need space. He’s so good at that. Treating me with courtesy and anticipating my needs.
But it only reinforces that I need something much different than what he can give me.
Walking into my sauna of an apartment, it’s day eight of the thermostat being on the fritz again. Without turning on the light, I hang up my hat and coat.
My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape me.
I try to ignore the familiar smoky scent curling around me, and the darkness hovering in the corner of the living room.
