Page 51 of Burning Truth

“You are a virgin,” Rachel states plainly, holding a college human sexuality textbook in her hand. I may even have had that exact copy when I took the psychology class as an elective. Emma cannot get any redder when she spots me behind Rachel. I fight back the smile, losing.

Will you stay over?” Rachel asks while we’re washing dishes.

I hesitate, knowing I’m about to disappear for a while, eventually forever. I’m trying to decipher what she’s asking exactly. I’ve stayed on the couch so many nights, there's probably an impression of me on the cushions.

I’ve picked up on the texts she receives when we’re out or sitting on the couch. The smile that teases her lips when she texts back. I know she’s having sex. And I don’t want to go there, knowing she’s hooking up with other guys. Not my style.

I’m not a saint. I’ve hooked up. Random nights here and there during high school with girls I never planned to see again. I was always up front. We knew what it was and what it wasn’t. I never wanted any of them to be within a hundred miles of Sadie.

This was before I knew she loved me. Once I knew she chose me…

“Not on the couch.” Rachel makes it clear this isn’t a platonic night of movies and talking about music. I look into her blue eyes, the shade of a stormy sky, and ask myself again if I want to go here. With her.

Then I think of the blow-up mattress with two pillows. The late-night texts and laughing on the phone. The trips to Hollis and Connecticut without me. The last thing I saw the night I walked away…

“Sure. But this doesn’t change anything.” I lie to myself. Because I know it will. But I don’t want to think about the consequences. I just want to forget.

“Of course not,” Rachel says, winking. She lies to me too.

By the time Rachel invites me to her room, Emma’s been in bed a while. I take in the clutter: the bottles of perfume, necklaces dangling from the corner of the vanity mirror. Clothes over the arm of the chair next to the closet. More hanging off the door. It’s moody in its darkness. Secrets live in its corners. This house whispers them in the night with its groans and creaks.

Rachel undresses unabashedly, slipping on satin shorts and a camisole. She’s not bold enough to ask for it blatantly, but she sure as hell insinuates she wants something to happen between us tonight. I kick off my shoes.

She crawls to the edge of the bed and gets up on her knees so she’s taller than her natural height. She beckons me forward. I obey, shutting down my mind. My thoughts. My memories.

Her slender hand runs under my sweater as she helps to lift it over my head. She sulks when she finds the T-Shirt underneath. I remove the T-shirt without assistance.

Rachel rakes her nails down my chest, my ribs, my stomach—eliciting a tickling pleasure that’s on the verge of pain. She follows with her mouth. I breathe in, trying to stay present. To get my head into this—both of them. Other than that one night when I was avoiding every human emotion, I haven’t been with anyone else in seven years.

“You okay?” Rachel asks when she notices I’ve stopped touching her.

Shut it down, Reeves. This has nothing to do with Sadie. She’s not here. Get her out of your mind.

“Yeah, sorry,” I say. “I thought I heard something.”

I’m lying. But then a moment later, I do.

“Don’t,” she begs me. “Let her be.”