Tyler and I escaped from the confinement of his bathroom two hours later. Our parents returned home with a son bearing a fractured wrist only to find a second son desperately awaiting their return, wondering why he’d been left alone to fend for himself. Little did they all know, Tyler and I had been in the house all along, supervising Chase from afar. I could hear that Ella was furious, probably thinking I’d bailed on babysitting and disappeared again, but when they started calling us both, they discovered we were in the room right above their heads. We had to bullshit our way to freedom.
“I don’t know how it happened,” I said. Not only was I lying through the door, I was also lying through my teeth.
“Me either,” Tyler added.
“I was coming to find him and I fell against the door,” I said. Another lie. Beside me, Tyler was pressing the back of his hand to his lips to muffle his laughter.
Dad said he’d call the neighborhood handyman, Mr. Forde, to come over straight away. But Mr. Forde obviously didn’t care too much about the standard of his customer service, because he turned up on the other side of the door forty minutes later. It took thirty bucks and a lot of picking and drilling to unbolt the lock, and finally Tyler and I sheepishly made our exit.
We didn’t talk to each other again for the rest of the night. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to speak to him. It was because he spent over an hour on the phone with Tiffani, his voice strained with the effort to come across soft and pleading as he tried his best to apologize for his “accidental mistake” that “happened in the spur of the moment”, which he “completely didn’t mean to do.” I could hear it all through the paper-thin walls that separate our rooms. He fed her lie after lie, stacking them on top of each other as he built up a cover story, claiming that a sophomore from Inglewood wanted to see his car when he was on his way to meet the guys, and somehow the fifteen-year-old ended up in his lap. Slightly far-fetched, but Tiffani believed him. His regret was so forced and so fake that I almost wanted to tear down the wall and ask him what he was playing at. But I never did, because I remembered that the Inglewood sophomore was really just me.
And so last night I fell asleep with my mind split in two. One half was drowning in guilt, but the other was floating, recklessly in love with the idea of Tyler and the secrets that are hidden within the depth of his being.
Because, somehow, I’ve managed to become one of them.
* * *
“And that’s why British guys are better than all these American scumbags,” Rachael announces, finally, after a five-minute speech comparing the two nationalities. According to her, British guys are better, because they have cute accents and use cute words and are just overall cute, and that’s as advanced as her arguments get.
Meghan voices her own opinion. She claims that the French are better, because they kiss you at the top of the Eiffel Tower and whisper “je t’aime” while you share a bottle of wine.
Both of their European boyfriend fantasies are somewhat stereotypical, but I just laugh and drop my eyes back down to the sidewalk. We’ve just left the Refinery, so my latte to-go is hot against my palms as I slightly lag behind my two companions, my gaze following the lines in the concrete.
“Eden,” Rachael says, spinning around with a sense of urgency. “You have the final say: British or French?” She and Meghan both stare at me, their expressions intense, as though I’m about to announce who’s just been elected president.
I simply shrug. “French,” I say.
Rachael’s face distorts with disgust as she turns on her heels and stalks off for dramatic effect. Meghan grins and tells me I’ve made the right choice, and then we rush through the flow of pedestrians until we catch up with Rachael again, who appears to have gotten over it by the time we reach her.
“We’ve got to wait for Tiff on Broadway,” she reminds us as we reach the promenade and head round the corner onto Third Street.
Given that it’s like three hundred degrees out today, it’s no surprise that there are people shuffling around, pushing past each other as they weave their way toward their next purchase. I don’t know where Broadway is, but Rachael and Meghan certainly do, so I drop back and tag behind again as we sweep southbound down Third Street. Every time I come here, I notice stores that I somehow didn’t notice the time before, like Rip Curl, some Australian company selling water-sports apparel, and Johnnie’s New York Pizzeria, which looks adorably Italian and reminds me of Dean.
Rachael slows to a halt by H&M, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair as she peers through the windows at the mannequins draped in floral designs. “Cute shirt,” she comments. She tilts her shades back over her eyes again and starts walking, this time both Meghan and I scrambling to keep up with her. It’s almost as if the alpha status gets passed onto Rachael whenever Tiffani isn’t here to fulfill the role, but today the switch doesn’t last long. We’re meeting Tiffani any minute now.
We reach the end of the promenade and file onto Broadway, where the promenade flows into Santa Monica Place, the upscale mall cluttered with designer stores that the girls have taken me to a couple times before. We pass Nordstrom and linger on the corner of Broadway and Second. Meghan presses her body back against the windows of the store as she squints at the sun, and Rachael folds her arms across her chest and taps her foot against the concrete as she studies the traffic. For a while I watch her and wonder what she’s looking for, but very soon it becomes clear.
She straightens up after a few minutes, arms dropping to her sides, expression curious. I follow her gaze. It lands on the white car that’s just pulled up across the street, windows down, engine still purring as it comes to a complete halt. It’s Tyler. My jaw tightens. There’s so much tension between us at the moment that it’s almost unbearable to be anywhere near him, especially under the watchful eyes of our friends.
“Why is she smiling?” Meghan asks as she steps in between Rachael and me, a hand resting on the top of her head, her fingers woven into her hair.
“Because she’s insane,” Rachael answers blankly.
The more I stare at the car, the more my jaw begins to twitch, and the more my jaw begins to twitch, the more I become frustrated with the whole situation. Tiffani is in the passenger seat. I knew she would be. The very first thing Tyler decided to tell me this morning when I woke up was that he was heading out to meet her, so it’s no surprise to see her with him.
The three of us watch for a few moments as the pair talk inside the privacy of the vehicle, Tyler’s eyebrows furrowed as Tiffani angles her body to face him, her hands moving as she speaks. I really wish I knew what they were saying. Tyler cracks a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and she leans over the center console to kiss him.
“She’s insane!” Rachael yells, her sudden outburst grabbing the attention of people around us, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she throws her hands up in frustration. I’m surprised she doesn’t hurl her coffee at the car. “A goddamn lunatic!”
I’m thinking the same thing about Tyler. I just don’t say it out loud.
Something is happening inside of me, like a light switch has been flicked on, and all at once a wave of fury rushes through my veins. I try to convince myself that it’s not jealousy, that I’m not jealous. But I am. My hand tightens around my cup and I almost crush it. I squeeze so hard that the plastic lid pops off and flutters to the concrete, delicate wisps of steam floating up and into the air. Immediately I draw the cup to my lips and sip at the latte as I watch the scene at the other side of the road.
Finally, Tyler pulls away from Tiffani. She’s giggling like a lovestruck preteen, like she’s head over heels for him again. This really aggravates me. Tiffani should hate him. They shouldn’t be fixing things and they shouldn’t still be together, but they clearly are. When Tiffani steps out of the car, she comes rushing across the traffic toward us, bearing a huge grin.
I’m still sipping my latte, never dropping the cup from my face, pretending to be too distracted to say anything. But as Tiffani reaches us, I notice Tyler’s car still sitting there at the opposite side of the road. He seems to have noticed me too. Through the windshield, he’s watching me, staring at me, until finally he smiles. It’s partly apologetic, partly genuine, like he’s glad to see me. I find myself smiling back, but our moment is quickly interrupted as Tiffani joins us on the sidewalk.
Rachael lets out a horrified groan and flings her coffee into a nearby trash can, as if to show her outrage at Tiffani’s good mood. “What is wrong with you?”
My eyes move to Tiffani. Over her shoulder, Tyler’s car revs its way down Broadway, leaving behind the gawking admirers and a plume of smoke. Tiffani, on the other hand, is unfortunately still here. Somehow her smile keeps on getting wider, so I keep on acting like I’m innocently sipping my latte. But I’m not innocent. In fact, I’m the guiltiest person around, and my coffee ran out twenty seconds ago.
“What?” Tiffani blinks her wide eyes, looking almost perplexed.
“That!” Rachael points in the direction that Tyler has just disappeared in. “I can’t believe you’ve forgiven him just like that.”
Tiffani’s smile becomes a pout as she bats her eyelashes and glances up from beneath them. It’s such a contrast from how she looked yesterday, when she cried out five hundred buckets of tears and looked entirely miserably. “He did explain himself, Rachael.”
“You’re really buying his bullshit story?”
“It’s not bullshit.”
There’s a moment of silence as Rachael tilts her head and presses her lips together, but Meghan seizes the opportunity to speak.
“When did you get that purse, Tiffani?” she asks suspiciously. “It’s new, isn’t it?”
All four of us drop our eyes to the purse hooked over Tiffani’s arm. It’s a brown Louis Vuitton monogram purse, the leather shining under the sun. Tiffani gives us a sheepish smile.
“Well . . .” she says slowly, and then bites her lower lip. “Tyler bought it for me.”
“That’s what I thought,” Meghan murmurs, and her eyebrows knit together as she shakes her head in disapproval. “At least we know now that it only takes a $1,000 purse to gain Tiffani Parkinson’s forgiveness.”
At this, Tiffani laughs. I don’t. I bite the rim of my cup to stop myself from saying something I shouldn’t, my teeth sinking so hard into the cardboard that I almost bore holes in it.
“He could have donated that money to charity,” Rachael remarks with a twisted frown, and I agree with her comment. I’m pretty sure the homeless would benefit more from that money than Tiffani will from her leather purse. “We all knew you’d end up forgiving him sooner or later.”
“And you could have stopped hooking up with Trevor six months ago,” Tiffani shoots back. “We all knew you’d end up falling for him.”
Meghan lets out a loud snort, to which she quickly covers her mouth with her hands. She blushes but still continues to giggle. I glance over my cup to Rachael, whose lips have parted to form an “o”. She looks flustered for a moment, like she’s suffering from a concussion and has forgotten how to string sentences together. I think she may be mad, but she only sighs.
“Fine,” she huffs. “You can forgive Tyler.”
“Thank you for your approval,” Tiffani says sarcastically. “Now can we please get inside the mall already? I’m dying for a Johnny Rockets sundae!”
By this point I’m pretty impressed with myself for holding my tongue, for hanging back and acting like I’m drinking the best goddamn latte I’ve ever had. As we head back up Broadway and past Nordstrom and Nike, I slip my gnawed cup into a trash can.
“Hurry up, Eden,” Meghan calls over her shoulder when we turn into the mall, and she pauses for a moment to allow me to catch up, which I unwillingly do.
The thing about Santa Monica Place is that it was built solely for the rich. I’ve noticed this each time I’ve been here, because it’s not hard to just look at the people who are happy to flaunt their wealth. From the man in the suit peering through the windows of Hugo Boss to the woman with the sophisticated dress and heels who’s eyeing up a watch in the Michael Kors window, it’s clear they have money they’re willing to spend. Tyler is the same.
Santa Monica Place is an outdoor mall, with four public walkways leading into an oval center, glamorous stores circling it. It’s so complex and unique and modern that it makes me feel out of place, but I follow the girls nonetheless. We head up the escalators to the third and final floor, which has an open-air dining deck, and make a beeline for Johnny Rockets. Johnny Rockets is another fast food chain that Oregon seems to be missing, because Oregon sucks and seems to be deprived of just about everything, except rain. Oregon is never short on rain.
When we reach the food court, Tiffani gets herself something called a Super Sundae, Meghan and Rachael go for the Perfect Brownie Sundae and I simply opt for water.
“The guys are on their way up,” Tiffani tells us without glancing up from her phone. She texts someone—presumably one of the guys—while scooping up a mouthful of ice cream at the same time, her eyes never leaving the device in her hands. “They’ve finally decided what’s happening on Saturday.”
“What’s happening on Saturday?” I blurt, my curiosity getting the better of me once again, and after I say it I realize it’s the first thing I’ve said since I decided that French guys are better than British.
Tiffani’s eyes flicker up from her phone as she swallows the ice cream she’s just piled into her mouth. She stares at me for a long moment before she glances across the table to Rachael and Meghan. “Is she serious?”
“The annual beach party,” Rachael says slowly, her eyes fixed on me as her spoon hovers above her brownie. She twirls it around in a circle. “The biggest and hottest party of the summer.”
“Oh,” I say. Quickly, I unscrew the cap of my water and take a long drink.
“They get a permit and shut down one half of the beach,” she explains, although I’m not all that interested in the exact details and I don’t exactly know who “they” are. “It’s supposed to be over twenty-one only, but, well, you know . . .” Playfully, she adjusts her hair and pouts. “Everyone goes. There’s not exactly a door to the beach where the security guards can card you.”
“Security guards?”
“There’s a lot of fights,” Tiffani says. “And obviously you can’t drink while you’re there, because it’s a public place and all. Unless you want to get arrested, which a lot of people do.”
“So,” Rachael cuts in, without missing a beat, “you get drunk before you go. Just don’t get, like, wasted or anything, because you’ll draw attention to yourself and you’ll end up getting kicked out for being a minor.”
Tiffani places her phone down on the table and draws her sundae toward her, slowly scooping up some more ice cream. She smiles as she throws me a peculiar glance and says, “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about Eden getting wasted.”
I press my lips together and narrow my eyes at her, slightly offended, as she and Rachael stifle a laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Tiffani’s smile grows into a small smirk as she exchanges glances with Rachael. She holds her spoon up to her lips. “You’re just not very . . .”
“I’m not very what, Tiffani?” I gnaw at the insides of my cheeks as five million words run through my head all at once. Not very cool? Popular? Sociable? Pretty? In other words, not very like them?
“Reckless,” she says, and then shovels the ice cream into her mouth.
Reckless? I’m not reckless? I almost mimic one of Meghan’s snorts but somehow manage to suppress the laughter in my throat. Oh, Tiffani, I think, I can assure you I am pretty damn reckless. If only they knew.
Tiffani swallows and stares at me, noticing my silence. “Where were you on Tuesday night?”
“Tuesday?” My voice is something between a whisper and a squeak. On Tuesday night, I was at the pier with Tyler. I certainly wasn’t with Meghan, and Tiffani knows this.
“Yeah, Tuesday.” She blinks at me as she awaits an answer. I don’t know why she’s asking me again. It’s like she wants to try and catch me out, like she’s hoping I’ll casually blurt out the truth in front of them all.
Rachael’s watching me too, intensifying the pressure of Tiffani’s question. My palms sweat. Meghan snorts again, and I begin to wonder if perhaps Johnny Rockets has slipped a few grams of pot into her brownie. She won’t stop giggling.
Tiffani heaves a sigh. “Where did you really go?”
“Oh my God!” Rachael almost screams, her body shooting upright as she leans across the table. “You were totally hooking up with Jake!”
Tiffani turns to her. “That’s what I thought too.”
My shoulders drop in relief. Thank God that’s what she thought my secret was. I’ve been in constant worry over the thought of Tiffani figuring out it was me that was with Tyler on Tuesday, but she isn’t on to us at all. “Maybe,” I say with a small smile. I look away. I’d rather they thought I was sneaking around with Jake than Tyler.
At this, Rachael almost hurls her body across the table. Her mouth is hanging open as she shakes her head quickly, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. I can’t blame her; I wouldn’t either. “Was it a home run? Eden, tell us!”
Meghan bursts into a fit of giggles and all three of us turn to look at her, confused. She bites her lip to smother some of her laughter, but she ends up squeezing her eyes closed and murmuring an apology. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized she’d been texting the entire time.
“Meg, what are you even laughing at?” Tiffani questions, sounding peeved.
“I’m sorry,” Meghan splutters again as she tries her hardest to control herself. “I’m texting Jared. He’s hilarious.”
“Who the fuck is Jared?” Rachael asks.
“The guy from Pasadena! The one from the beach,” she says. She smiles at Tiffani and then adds, “He and his friends are coming on Saturday.”
“Oh my God, you and Eden are ridiculous!” Rachael folds her arms across her chest and rolls her eyes. “You’re both talking to guys and neither of you thought to tell us?”
“You never told us about Trevor,” Tiffani says with a playful grin. “We only found out because Meg walked in on the two of you at Jason’s party last year.”
“Let it go,” she huffs, but she’s cracking a smile.
The guys show up five minutes later. I’m thankful, because we’ve been sitting listening to Meghan tell us everything she finds hilarious about Jared, and she’s beginning to repeat herself.
There’s Tyler, Dean and Jake, and I notice that Dean has positioned himself between the other two. I still don’t understand how Tyler and Jake are friends, yet they hate each other. Somehow they can force themselves into acting civil. The three of them wander over to us and pull over chairs from another table. I notice how Tyler settles himself next to Tiffani, but not too close. His eyes never meet mine.
“So we’ve decided,” Jake starts, once we’ve gotten past the greetings, “that we’ll go to Dean’s before the party on Saturday.”
“A party before a party,” Dean says. He grins as he quickly glances around the six of us, as though he’s trying to gauge if we’re game or not. “We’ll take care of the booze.”
“You guys just take care of looking good,” Jake finishes. He pulls a face and shrugs, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms across his chest.
Rachael flings her spoon across the table at him, and he dodges it by a centimeter. “Prick,” she mutters, and he offers her a crooked smile.
“You know I’m kidding, Rachy baby,” he says innocently. He cocks his head as though he’s challenging her to a rap battle or something.
“Don’t call me that!”
While they bicker, I don’t say anything. I’m mostly too embarrassed at the thought of the girls thinking I had sex with Jake two days ago, but I’m also trying my hardest to act as nonchalant around Tyler as possible. Too much eye contact could be suspicious, but none at all could also raise questions. After all, he’s my stepbrother. It would be weird if we didn’t acknowledge each other. So occasionally I glance over at him, hoping each time that he’ll look up at the same moment, but somehow I never seem to be able to catch his eye. He’s too busy staring at the table while Tiffani runs her fingers up and down his arm, and he looks like he’s frozen stiff. She doesn’t seem to notice. Her hands reach up to grasp his jaw as she draws his lips toward hers, but he jerks his head to the side and she ends up planting a kiss on his cheek. After that, he stares at the ground, never looking back up.
I angle my body slightly away from them and turn to Meghan for support, but she’s back on her phone again, snorting and giggling at texts from Jared. I glare around the group. All of them are annoying me in one way or another, except Dean. My eyes land on him, sitting at the opposite side of the table and looking as left out as I feel.
“Freaks,” he mouths. He smiles, and I think about the five-dollar bill that he wrote on and I grin back, but then Rachael’s voice distracts me.
“Eden, you and Jake should go for a walk or something,” she says with an edge to her voice, her eyes wide and encouraging as she stares at me. She gives me a curt nod and then turns back to Jake. “Off you go, lovebirds.”
Jake raises his eyebrows, looking perplexed, like he wants to ask, “What the hell?” but manages to refrain. He stands and lets his eyes fall to me before he nods to the escalator. “Eden?”
Rachael’s beaming at me, Dean has averted his eyes to the sky, and Tyler has finally glanced up, his attention caught. Tiffani is tracing circles on his neck with her index finger now, but he doesn’t seem to pay attention, only glares at me instead.
Jake’s still waiting, so I quickly get to my feet, murmur, “We won’t be long,” to everyone and then walk around the table until I reach him. I don’t linger to wait for a reply from anyone, so Jake and I head off on our own. We weave our way through the food court and across the dining deck.
Jake stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans as we take the escalator down to the second level of the mall. He leans against the handrail. “So what’s up?”
“Not much,” I say. I don’t particularly want to talk to him, especially after I’ve been ignoring his texts for a few weeks now. I was hoping he’d give up. That way, we wouldn’t be in the awkward situation that we are now. “We haven’t talked in a while.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“I figured,” he says.
There’s tension in the air as we step off the escalator and saunter over to the glass barrier that wraps its way around the entire level. We’re peering down at all the people on the floor below as they zip across from one store to another. Jake’s leaning forward, his arms crossed and resting against the barrier, and I slowly run my fingers over the metal.
“You know that I have to go home next month, right?” I glance sideways but don’t angle my head to look at him. He doesn’t look back at me. I know this isn’t exactly what Rachael had in mind when she sent us off alone, but she’s given me the perfect opportunity to set things straight with him.
“Yeah, I know,” he says.
“Right,” I say, although my voice is laced with trepidation, worried that he’ll take my words the wrong way. “So maybe we should just stick to being friends.”
Jake still doesn’t glance over at me, but he shrugs and stares at a group of girls on the floor below. They look like seniors and I wonder if he recognizes them. “Whatever, Eden,” he mutters. “It was never going to be anything serious. Just a little fun, if you know what I mean.”
I blink and take a step back from the barrier. “Wow.”
“What?” Now he looks at me. He straightens up and narrows his blue eyes, acting like he didn’t just say what he just said. “I thought you knew that.”
“I did,” I say sharply, suddenly realizing that Tyler was completely right when he told me that Jake was a player. Just a little fun, that’s what Jake plays for. Nothing serious, because serious isn’t cool. “I just didn’t believe it until now.”
I don’t even know why I’m getting angry over this. In fact, I should be thrilled to get Jake off my back, overjoyed that he didn’t get offended. I don’t think I ever saw myself being with him, anyway. He was a good kisser, and that night was fun, but that’s as far as Jake and I are going. We’re simply friends. Minus the benefits that he likes to think he’s entitled to.
I sigh and rub my temples. “Okay, whatever, it’s cool. You bought me Chick-fil-A, so thanks.”
“Cool,” he says with a laugh, but he sounds a little agitated. The thing about Jake is that he seems like a nice guy, but there’s a look in his eyes right now that makes me wonder if he’s a completely different person when things don’t go his way.
I don’t know what to say back to him and it looks like he’s done talking anyway, so I turn around and stalk my way back over to the escalator. He follows me. We head back up to the dining deck, where our friends are still sitting. Tiffani has somehow managed to sprawl herself across Tyler’s lap. She sure does take the phrase “forgive and forget” seriously. But I notice that Tyler doesn’t return her enthusiasm. She’s all over him, but his hands are stuffed into his pockets and his expression is blank.
Rachael wiggles her eyebrows at me when we approach, but I pretend not to notice and fetch my bottle of water from the table instead. Tiffani finally unwraps herself from Tyler and the seven of us actually have a conversation for once, discussing the party on Saturday and what alcohol to get and who they think will turn up at beach. I just sort of nod my way through the entire thing, agreeing with everything Rachael says and hoping it’s enough to get me through.
* * *
That night, after Rachael and I finally made our way home to Deidre Avenue, I picked at the mac and cheese that Ella made for dinner, set off on a run, and then collapsed into bed shortly after. An entire day of trailing around stores was simply too much for me to handle, so the exhaustion from the extensive socializing and the run combined was enough to put me to sleep long before midnight.
I don’t know what I was thinking about before I dozed off, but I’m pretty convinced I was thinking about Tyler. I know that he was all I thought about when I was running. I couldn’t get today out of my head. It was the way he pulled up to the mall with Tiffani and her new purse that he splashed a wad of cash on, kissing her like he hadn’t been kissing me the night before. It was the way he’d smiled at me afterward, the way his eyes had crinkled, the way he was keeping everything a secret, keeping us a secret. That’s what I couldn’t stop thinking about.
Suddenly I’m stirring awake again, my room dark, the house silent. I stare at my wall through half-closed eyes and behind me I hear my door squeak open again, and I realize this is what has woken me. I moan into my comforter.
“Are you awake?” a voice whispers across the room. It’s Tyler, and my eyes promptly fly open, my door groaning as it clicks shut again.
Now I most definitely am, I think. I don’t move an inch. My eyes just rest on my dull wall as I listen to the muffled sound of Tyler’s footsteps shuffling across my carpet. “Yeah,” I murmur. “What time is it?”
“Three,” Tyler says, his voice still hushed, like we shouldn’t dare make a sound. I hear him exhale from behind me just as the mattress shifts beneath my body, my comforter lifted up as he slips into my bed. “Can I sleep with you?”
I’m still pretty much half asleep as my eyelids flutter closed again, but the corners of my lips pull up into a small, tired smile. When I don’t reply straight away, Tyler starts to babble.
“I mean, not like hook up with you, just fall asleep, you know, like, rest,” he blurts quickly, his breath tickling the back of my neck, his body never touching mine.
“I know what you meant,” I say.
There’s a long silence. The only thing I can hear is our breathing, completely out of sync. Whenever I inhale, he exhales, and it almost begins to sound like a rhythm until his breathing slows. That’s when I feel his warm, bare skin press against my back, his chest hard yet somehow comfortable, his long fingers moving to touch my arm. The sensation makes my body shiver.
“I’m sorry about Tiffani,” he whispers against my ear as he runs his other hand through my hair.
“You should be.”
“Just let me figure it out,” he almost pleads, his voice laced with something that I can’t quite understand, and, quieter, he adds, “I’m trying to figure everything out.”
I’m still staring at the wall. “Like what?”
“Eden,” he says, “in case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty fucked up.” He draws his body away from mine and rolls over to face the other way, so I finally tear my eyes away from the wall and switch onto my other side.
I stare at his back now, my gaze resting on his tattoo on the back of his shoulder blade. I lift my hand and press a finger to the ink. “I wouldn’t say that. More like lost.”
“Lost?”
“Yeah,” I say. My voice is barely audible. “I think you’re lost.”
“What makes you think that?”
I trace a line from his tattoo down to the bottom of his spine and back up to his other shoulder, edging my body closer into him, craving the heat from his skin. I wrap my arm around him and close my eyes, whispering, “Because you have no idea what you’re doing or where you’re going,” only moments before I fall back asleep once more.
And by 7AM, he’s gone.
