As we lay there, her hand stretches across the bed, knocking into mine, and before my senses come rushing back to me, I lace my fingers with hers and hold tight to her as we lie staring at her tiny stars.
The strange thing is, this room that I’ve never been in, with the mountain of pink pillows and the scent of us hanging in the air like a cloud, feels more like home than the Manor ever has. And that scares me, more than just a little bit. More than anything.
No, that’s not true. Not more than anything.
I wrap an arm around Iris, dragging her across the bed until she’s crushed against my chest.
She doesn’t argue as I press my face to the top of her head. She merely slips her hand beneath my shirt, fingers trailing over tender skin as I shut my eyes and breathe in deep.
“You really don’t feel anything?” she asks, breaking the hard-earned moment of peace.
I’m not upset with her for it, though. I knew this would come eventually. It’s one of the reasons I never told her.
I shake my head.
“No, I don’t.”
“What about other things? Like adoration? Or affection?”
Adoration? Definitely not.
But I’ve gotten pretty good at faking affection over the years.
I smile at Kitty when she’s sad. I hug Dame when he’s lonely. And I kiss Iris when she seems like she could use a little calm.
But none of that’s really for me. I do it for them. Because I don’t want them to be in pain, like I am.
“No,” I answer, feeling Iris’s body stiffen in my arms.
“What’s left then?” she asks.
I sigh.
“Mostly desire, anger…and pain.”
She presses closer, squeezing me tight.
“Is that why you have so many?”
“So many what?”
“Piercings,” she says.
I understand then that Iris sees me. Perhaps better than I see myself.
“Yeah,” I say, stroking her back. “I guess so.”
She doesn’t seem bothered by my answers, but I may be mistaken because she slowly starts to shift, twisting in my arms and lying herself between my legs until her chin rests on my chest.
“What do you feel right now?” she asks.
The puffy redness in her eyes is gone now, but the hope in them is more than enough to kill me.
I know what she wants me to say. She wants me to lie, to tell her I feel rage or shame or joy. Anything but the truth. Which is that I feel nothing.
Even as she’s smiling at me, anticipation steadily thumping in her chest, I feel nothing, and the longer I look at her, the more I realize, “I can’t do this…”
“What?”
