She gives me a knowing look, lips cocked to the side and eyebrows arched. I always forget how perceptive Claire is.
Sighing, I admit, “A friend promised me they’d show up tonight, and they haven’t.”
“Yet,” she says with a glimmer of hope in her eyes. It’s infectious.
“Right. They haven’t shown upyet.”
“So, enjoy yourself until they do. Okay? If they’re a true friend, they won’t let you down.”
“Thanks.” Desperate for something to do with my hands, I grab a fresh beer from the tub on the island. “You’re a kind person, you know that?”
Her freckled cheeks turn rosy and she responds with a quick hug before leaving the room.
I take a drink from the sweating bottle in my hand, picking at the sleeves of my dress with the other. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious. Why did I decide to wear this dress tonight? Was it for Phantom after all? Now that it looks like they might end up ghosting me, I feel ridiculous in it.
I consider going back to the dance floor, but ultimately decide against it since my feet are growing sore. Instead, I climb the main staircase with the goal of checking out the photographs that linethe upstairs hallway. There’s one near the spare bedroom I painted in that I especially like.
When I make it to the second-floor landing, I look around, trying to orient myself. I haven’t been up here in a while, but I’m pretty sure the photograph I like is to my left. As I walk down the hall, it dawns on me I’m alone. In a house packed with people, here in this narrow hallway, I’m completely alone. Being alone used to make me sad, anxious even, before Phantom. But I’ve learned an important lesson from them over the past few weeks in that regard. They’ve helped me learn how to enjoy my own company, in a way, or at the very least tolerate it. I used to be afraid of being trapped alone with my thoughts, but now that I don’t judge them as much, it’s not so scary. I let them live and breathe and then fade away. They might not always be happy or helpful thoughts, but they’re mine, and I don’t have to run from them, because... I’m not someone worth running away from.
Turns out Phantom’s helping me face my fears, just like they’re facing their own.
I walk to the end of the hall and stop before a photograph of a wire metal heart warping and melting within the depths of a red-hot fire. I step back to lean against the opposite wall as I study the photo. I tip my head to the side and catch a glimpse of green in my periphery. A bedroom door hangs ajar to the left of the photograph. Intrigued, I push myself off the wall and prod the door open. The room beyond is full of thriving potted house plants, the walls plastered with beautiful sketches. I smile to myself as I realize this must be Franco’s room.
“Maeve.”
My every muscle freezes. I’d know that voice saying my name anywhere.
“You came,” I whisper, but don’t turn around. The alcohol in my system seems to suddenly hum in my veins, making me feel faint.
My ears perk up at the sound of a soft metalclink. I glance over my shoulder to find the door closed and Phantom’s fingers on the lock, their two-toned gaze roving over me. My stomach bottoms out, and I whip my head back toward Franco’s potted jungle.
My aching heart thumps an insistent, dizzying rhythm; the room blurs before my eyes.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t disappoint you again,” they say, their tone low and from much closer than they were a moment ago.
Guilt slithers through my core as my eyes roll into the back of my head at the husky sound of their voice. I relax my shoulders, trying to shake the sensation off, and gasp softly as one of the sleeves of my dress falls down my arm, exposing my bare shoulder.
The heat of Phantom’s touch startles me as they gently take my sleeve and slide it back to its rightful place, covering me once more. I feel the warmth of their body, so close to mine, against the skin of my neck, and silently curse myself for choosing to wear my hair up. The scent of peppermint fills the room, making my mouth water.
“Thanks,” I breathe.
“You’re a work of art tonight, Maeve,” they whisper in my ear, their scalding hand still over the thin, satin fabric of my dress. My stomach swoops. The heat of their palm moves, leaving the skin on my shoulder tingling, as the barely-there caress of their finger drifts slowly up the curve of my neck.
Their chest brushes against my shoulder blades on an inhale, the sensation nothing compared to the feel of their fingers tracing the outline of my ear, tangling in the sweat-damp strands of my ponytail. Gently, tenderly, they fist the bulk of it, pulling it to the side to turn my face toward them. Desire roils through my veins, and instinctively, my eyes flutter closed at the tension. Against my scalp. Against the molten core of me.
“You smell so good.”
The declaration sets me ablaze, my bones turning to putty. “Hm?” I murmur, all rational thought blinking out of existence as their hand drops from my hair to my back, their nimble fingers toying with the strings holding my dress together.
“Like blackberries and jasmine,” they clarify on an exhale. “Like all of my favorite things. Like you, andonlyyou.”
It takes every modicum of self-control I have not to take a step back, not to grind up against them, not to take their hand in mine and guide it exactly where I want it, where I’vebeenwanting it—where my desire-addled mind thinks itneedsit. But I don’t. Just barely, I don’t.
The meekness of my next words is a disappointment, even to my ears. “Thank you.”
Before shame can overpower my arousal, Phantom grips my hip and spins me to face them. What I see stuns me.
Phantom is devastating in all black. Their pants hang loose from their hips and their collarless, long-sleeve shirt is buttoned to the neck. Their typically unruly midnight waves are slicked back and tamed with product, the ends curling deliciously around their ears. And their mask...
