Fiona
By the time I get back inside, my skin is crawling with the need for relief, annoyance falling down my spine like rain, the drizzle stealing my focus. I glance into the ballroom and see my father gathering his things from our table, bending to kiss my mother’s forehead and probably telling her he’ll be right back to walk her to the car.
The tightness in my chest expands to my throat, a cautious fire igniting with each breath, anxiety swimming through my veins and absorbing all of my conscious energy.
Even the anger and confusing arousal I’d been feeling when I fled the yard dissipates, lost in my brain’s struggle to maintain control over itself. To not give in to the overwhelming need to fix something—anything, really—when nothing’s broken in the first place.
Cigarettes dull the sensation, providing an immediate balm to the sharp edges of consumption, of the need for control inside a body incapable of releasing it without feeling like the entire world is crumbling.
But I made a promise to my mother when she was diagnosed and began relying on me to assist her with everyday life; she’d never shamed me for the disgusting habit, possibly because she was aware of my internal battle, but she did ask me to stop. To control myself when it came to my addictions, as if wars can actually be won by sheer willpower.
‘Ninety-nine percent of your reality is perception,’ she says, spouting off what I’m pretty sure has to be a made-up statistic. And while I get the sentiment, it feels like an oversimplification.
Still, I agreed, because I’m willing to try anything once, especially if it might make my life easier. Being an Ivers is difficult enough when you’re not adding problems into the mix.
Sweat beads along my hairline as panic seizes my esophagus, crushing it beneath its greedy little palm, and I can feel myself slipping into a spiral once I reach the bathroom off the foyer of the arts center. It’s not an attack so much as an eruption, like when a volcano has been dormant for so long and finally lets go.
Locking myself in the cramped space, I grip the porcelain sink and let the cold water run, cupping my hands under the stream and splashing my face with it. The act is more ritual than anything, something an ex-therapist suggested as a way to shock my system out of its self-destruction, but that has never once actually worked.
Standing up straight, I use a paper towel to dry my skin, put my mask back on, and toss the towel into the metal garbage bin hanging on the wall. My hands drop to my sides, the index finger on one curling as it begins tapping in sets of three against my thigh, the gesture pushing a shudder of calm through me.
My mind fixates on the tap, tap, tap instead of its desire or the embarrassment of having Boyd butt in where he wasn’t concerned. I’m not stupid—I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to even speak to Ethan Shultz, a quarterback from King’s Trace Prep attending community college in Stonemore, our neighboring town.
Truth is, I just wanted a cigarette, and sometimes you have to be willing to get your hands dirty to get what you want.
I was also curious to know what on-campus life is like; after graduating last year from KTP, the only private K-12 school in town, I started classes at Stonemore Community. Only, I’m stuck attending online, drowning in psych textbooks and cursing the universe for making my mother need me.
As the weight crushing my chest lightens with each tap of my finger, I turn and lean against the sink, crossing my arms, swishing the skirt of my gown with the movement.
The bathroom door swings open, and Boyd strides in with a bored expression on his face, as if joining me in an occupied restroom is a totally normal, everyday occurrence.
“Can I help you?” I ask, trying to melt into the sink behind me, wondering what I’ve done to suddenly earn his presence multiple times in the same night, after years of him ignoring my existence.
He walks to the single stall, shoving the door with his shoulder. “That depends—got any more fuck boys hidden in here?”
Ignoring the implication that I was hiding one before, I roll my eyes. “Sorry, you just missed him. After a raucous round of lovemaking, he was parched and set off to find a drink.”
Boyd’s eyes sear into mine, an unreadable glint in them making my face heat. I clear my throat, shifting on my feet when he doesn’t respond. “I could’ve been using the bathroom, you know.”
“Without locking the door?” He cocks his head, letting his gaze travel slowly down my form. I clench my thighs together, trying to ward off the pulse beating between them.
Tilting my chin up, I meet his stare head-on, my body doused by the heat reflected back. “Maybe I like to live dangerously.”
He smirks. “Is that right?”
“Maybe. You don’t know me, Boyd.”
A humming sound comes from somewhere in his throat, deep and delicious, sending a shiver down my spine. The panic from before is replaced with a new discomfort entirely, one that says I’m nowhere experienced enough to take on a man like the one before me.
“Don’t I?” He comes closer, running a hand through his dirty blond hair, disheveling it just so, giving it that sexy bedhead look. My toes curl inside my silver Jimmy Choo pumps, my brain melting as his scent assaults my senses. Clean and crisp, the essence of his persona, although the way his eyes darken with molten lust makes me think there’s a beast hidden beneath his sculpted body and trademark suspenders.
Something dark. Something I want to get lost in.
“I know you would’ve been in a shitload of trouble tonight had I not come to your rescue, princess.” His smirk turns malicious, the corners of his mouth sharpening as it morphs, and again I press myself into the sink, equal parts intimidated and intrigued.
“I didn’t ask for a knight in shining armor,” I whisper, my resolve liquefying as he shifts closer, the fabric of his suit jacket brushing against the sequins on my dress.
“I never claimed to be one.” His breath ghosts over my face, warm and somehow minty, despite the joint he’d been smoking just minutes ago. A knock sounds on the door, breaking the odd spell weaving between our souls, and I shimmy away, remembering that I’m supposed to be annoyed with him.