15
Skye
That was too much. Way too much. My mom is more beat up than ever, and Daddy Dearest still doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong.
We pull into the apartment parking lot, and I finally take a deep breath. I exhale, releasing memories and pain.
“Thank you,” I tell him as I slam the car door.
“Don’t mention it,” Kevin says with a forced smile.
He didn’t speak on the ride home. He looked lost in his own mind. But so was I.
We walk toward the apartment. Spring brings new life to the grass, and the green blades rise toward the sun. I lift my chin and let the rays warm my cheeks. I rise like the grass. We enter the apartment, and Kevin closes the door behind me as I drop my bags on the kitchen floor. I turn toward him and lift my finger.
“Wait, thirty-one? I thought you were thirty?”
“I was. I had a birthday,” he says without looking at me.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“There’s nothing to tell. I don’t give a shit about birthdays.”
“Well, I give several shits about birthdays! When was it?”
“Two days ago,” he says with a frown on his face.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll make a cake—if you have the stuff—and you can pour us drinks. We’ll celebrate!”
“You aren’t drinking, Skye.”
I grab a bottle of liquor and a glass and run down the hall before he can catch me.
“Where are you going? Hey! Bring that back!” he calls halfheartedly, as if he’s too exhausted to fight me on it.
“If I pour it in here,” I call from the bathroom, “you can pretend you know nothing about it. If you didn’t see it, it didn’t happen.” I smile as I return to the living room with a full glass of clear liquor.
“Teenager logic.” He sighs, pours himself a drink, carries it to the couch, and plops down.
I search for something to make for him. My hand stumbles across an expired box of brownie mix tucked in a long-forgotten corner of the pantry. This will have to do.
I dust off the box and mix the ingredients, taking a long swig of my drink between each step. I pour it into a pan and put it in the oven to bake.
“Hi,” he says without looking back at me when I walk into the room. He takes a swig of his drink.
I do the same. No matter how many sips I take, the liquor burns my throat. My skin flushes with warmth. When I sit on the chair, I draw my legs under me and stare at Kevin, running my finger along the rim of my glass in my lap. I must be drunk because my mind wanders to how he looked in front of my dad—so tall and strong. The muscles of his arms flexed and strained at his shirtsleeves. He was so protective.
Of me.
As I watch him now, I see how his jaw ticks, even when relaxed. The light catches in his brown hair. Why haven’t I noticed these things before?
The oven timer beeps, snapping me out of my Kevin-filled daze. I go to the kitchen and take the pan out of the oven. It smells delicious. I cut two pieces—one for him and one for me.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to—”
“Skye, stop,” he says as he sits up and looks at me.
I sit beside him, my eyebrows drawn as my gaze drops. I hand him the plate without looking at him.
“I’m sorry,” he says as he takes the plate.
I set my plate on the table and try to pretend his reaction doesn’t bother me.
“Skye, I’m sorry.” His voice shakes, and his weight shifts on the cushion beside me. He reaches out, grabs my arm, and pulls me into him. His powerful arms wrap around me. “I’m not used to people doing things for me. But I appreciate you trying. Really.”
His embrace is so strong around me. And warm. His touch is almost hot. I relax into him, which is weird, because I never relax. Especially when someone touches me.
His warm breath falls on my shoulder, and I shiver. I turn to face him. His lips are so close, and I can smell his cologne. Alcohol courses through my blood, giving me unfamiliar confidence. I lean forward until our lips meet. He hesitates for a moment before bringing a hand to my face. It slips behind my neck, drawing me into him.
Just when I begin to feel like an actual eighteen-year-old with normal emotions and a functioning mind, he pulls away from me.
No.
My longing lips chase his for a moment.
“Skye,” he whispers as he pulls his hand away from me.
I scoot away from him. Panic rises into my chest, and I almost feel like I’m suffocating as the strong hand of rejection wraps around my neck.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I shake my head, dropping my gaze away from him as a lone tear slips down my cheek. He scoots closer and closes the space between us. He grabs my chin and forces me to look at him. His eyes pour into mine.
“I can’t do this,” he says in almost a whisper. “You’re drunk.” He touches my flushed cheek. “And I’m supposed to take care of you. I can’t do that like this.”
I scoff at him. He probably thinks I’m too damaged. An unfixable level of broken. How could he be attracted to someone as physically and emotionally scarred as me?
“I know what you’re thinking, Skye.” He grabs me and pulls me into his chest. “This has nothing to do with you. Nothing. This is because of me. There’s so much you don’t know about me . . . things you should know before we try to take this further.”