22
Kevin
Ipop my arm through the open window and watch the sun’s rays light up my tanned arm. The time on the clock reaches the full hour, which hopefully means her therapy session went better than last time. She plops into her seat with a huff and slams the door. Guess my theory was wrong.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“I don’t understand the point of all this. Even if I thought therapy could help me, I’m not allowed to talk about anything I need to. Piece of shit father . . .” Her words fade.
“Why can’t you talk about him?”
“If anything gets out, he’ll fucking kill me. I mean, unalive the fuck out of me and hide my body so well it becomes national attention while simultaneously helping his campaign.” Skye groans.
“I’m not a therapist, but you can try to talk to me. What did she say to do?”
“Some stupid shit about writing a letter, reading it out loud to her, and then destroying it afterward. I’m not reading anything to her.”
I take a deep breath. This is something Mr. Andrews had us do, and it really helps. “If I write one with you, do you want to read to each other?” I shift the car into reverse.
She looks at me, a small smile creeping across her face. “Maybe,” she says with a nod. “What did Mr. Andrews tell you to do? You never talk about your therapy.”
“He wants me to reach out to my family. He thinks they’re the ticket to resolving some trauma.”
“Well, are they?”
I pull out of the parking lot, my hands gripping the steering wheel harder at her question. “People have shitty parents. They didn’t make me do the things I’ve done.”
“Oh, I know about shitty parents, and they have made me do most of the things I’ve done. A residual effect of their own hands or because they turned a blind eye to the hands of others.” Her voice trembles. “You should still send them a text or something. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“I’ll consider it. You didn’t tell her about us, did you?”
“Why? Are you ashamed?”
“Absolutely not. But if it somehow gets back to Mr. Andrews, he’s going to unalive me.” A nervous laugh slips past my lips. “He explicitly told me not to do what we did last night.”
I wipe my hand through my hair as we drive by Emily’s apartment. For the first time, I don’t feel the urge to check the parking lot, but out of pure habit, I still do. Her car sits in the lot, but it doesn’t make my heart catch mid-beat like it used to.
“I don’t understand why he cares so much,” Skye continues.
“Because I’m thirty-one, you’re eighteen, and mentally, we’re both dumpster fires. Put us together and we just create a bigger fire.”
“I don’t mind a bit of heat.” Skye shrugs.
“Till I burn you.”
“Fire can’t hurt fire.”
True. But it can cause a wildfire.
We pull into the parking lot, and I turn off the ignition. Before I can grab the door handle, Skye grips my shirtsleeve.
“Do you regret last night?”
Do I?
I regret blurring the lines between us. I regret complicating this for us. I worry that I’ll leave her more damaged than I found her.
I turn back to her. Sadness rounds her eyes. I should have prepared for this moment, but I didn’t.
“I do regret it.”
She drops her gaze.
“But now I don’t want it to stop.” I can’t stop. She’s better than any drink, numbing me like nothing I’ve ever felt. That’s all I need—one more addiction.
Her eyes raise to meet mine again. “Really?”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Regret it.”
She shakes her head. “Not even a little.”
She lets go of my sleeve, and we get out of the car. I wrap my arms around her and hug her.
“Let me be clear,” I say. “I don’t regret sleeping with you. I just don’t think I’m the one who deserves to be.”
“Well, if it’s not you, it would probably be no one. I don’t find men attractive. I’m terrified to open myself up to be hurt, physically more than mentally.”
I fight back the excitement growing against the front of my jeans. I push her away and wrap my arm around her waist. “Let’s get inside.”
We head into the apartment. There’s an uncomfortable feeling of ease, like when things are too okay. Skye heads to the kitchen and looks through the fridge. She doesn’t hide from food at this moment, and her smile as she looks back at me is pure.
“Do you want macaroni and cheese or leftover takeout?” She rattles the container of leftovers.
This feels so mundane and normal, which is entirely foreign to both of us.
“Whatever you want,” I tell her, knowing she’s eyeing the takeout.
“It’s lazier.”
She smiles as she pulls it out and throws it in the microwave. Once the timer goes off, she spreads the food onto two plates. I sit on the couch and wait. She hands a plate to me and sits on the recliner. Instead of scrutinizing each bite, there are only a few moments where she balances her food on her fork before putting it in her mouth.
“Did she say you have to write a letter for each person or just one letter total?”
Skye swallows hard. “She said it should be a personalized letter for every person that I feel I’ve wronged or who has hurt me.”
I wipe a hand through my hair. “There isn’t enough paper for me to write all that.”
“Is one of them your ex-girlfriend?” A pinched smile slips onto her face. “The one on your phone?”
Shit. She saw it. “Our relationship was very toxic, which is mostly my fault. I didn’t want to get better for myself, let alone for her or our relationship.”
My memories fill with Emily. She saturates every channel in my mind. My heart races against the wall of my chest at the thought of coming to with my hands around her throat. Her bloodshot eyes lolling back in her head. The fear in her eyes as I pulled my hands away. Sweat collects on my hands at the memory of her in court, describing what I did to her in detail. How I ran away instead of facing my actions or making sure she was okay. Most importantly, how I pushed her directly into the arms of that fucking guy. If she hadn’t loved him before, she sure did once I tried to extinguish her life. He welcomed her with an open mouth.
Although she’s right beside me, Skye’s voice sounds miles away. She’s in my living room, but I’m somewhere else entirely.
“Kevin?” Her disjointed and far-away voice echoes in my head. “Kevin? Are you okay?”
Warmth wraps around me. I try to pull myself out of this hole I’m in, struggling to climb back over the ledge to reality. Once I finally make it back to my feet, Skye’s form comes into view as the memories leave my vision. She looks concerned, and rightfully so. I try to calm my breath and slow the rise in my chest. I shrug out of her grasp.