I shake my head, inching away. “Don’t. I’m awful.”
“You were in fourth grade,” he says, trying to soothe me. “Kids are mean, and at that age, everyone wants to belong. You think you’re the only one who feels like shit? Who’s made mistakes?” He nudges my face, making me open my eyes and look into his. “We’re all ugly, Ryen. The only difference is, some hide it and some wear it.”
I slide the food out of the way and crawl into his lap, wrapping my arms around him and burying my face in his neck, hugging him close. He gently falls back onto the bed, lying down and taking me with him.
Why didn’t we do this ages ago? Why was I so scared to meet him and change things? We’ve been there for each other during his grandmother’s funeral, lengthy summer camps with hardly any communication to each other, and even a couple of girlfriends of his who I never told him I was really jealous of.
Why did I think that all the words and letters and the friendship would fade so easily?
His arms hold me tight as I lay my head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat and the light tapping of rain against the window. This is new for me. I’ve been comfortable in places, but I think this is the first time I’ve been anywhere I never want to leave. My eyelids fall closed, sleep pulling at me.
“I have a question,” he speaks up, causing me to stir.
“Hmm?”
“When you write on the walls at school, you sign the messages as Punk. Why?”
I keep my eyes closed, but I breathe out a weak, little laugh. “Do you remember the letter you wrote about your first tattoo and your dad saying you looked like a punk?”
“Yeah?”
“So it was a tribute to you,” I tell him. “A shout out to the ruffians and rule breakers.”
“But why not use your own name?”
I pinch my eyebrows together. “Because I don’t want to get caught.” Duh.
“Okay…” he says. “So what you do is hide in the dark to share words anonymously, because you want to be heard but not mocked. Is that it?”
I open my eyes, thinking. Is that what I do?
“You want to be loved without risking consequence, so you reach out to get the attention you need while enjoying the luxury of taking no responsibility for those words.”
I start to shrink into myself. I don’t like what he’s saying or the fact that he’s saying it, but I can’t deny that he’s right.
I don’t want to hear feedback, because if they knew it was me, their reactions would be different. But it’s not exactly fair to throw things in their faces and hide under their noses, either.
“Alone, Empty, Fraud, Shame, Fear,” he murmurs, holding me tighter. “Don’t you get it yet? You don’t have to be afraid or embarrassed. No one does you better than you. You can’t be replaced. Not everyone will see that, but only you need to.”
He kisses my hair, and I wrap my arm around his torso. No one does me better than me.
I close my eyes again, hearing what he’s saying. I changed, because I didn’t think what I brought to the table was worthy enough. I let them make me believe that, but who made them authorities? I may no longer be adored, but I might not be so miserable, either.
And I may eat alone, but that’s not such terrible company, is it?
I feel him move under me, and then a blanket covers my legs and body, locking our warmth in under the covers. I slowly drift off to sleep to the sounds of the rain and his heartbeat.
A velvety tickle glides across my skin, and I strain to lift my lids. The room is darker, the sun having set, but the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table illuminates the bed, and I glance over at the window, seeing that it’s now dark outside. The rain pounds hard, echoing through the roof, and thunder rolls outside.
Misha is bare-chested and propped up on his side next to me, his head down by my ass.
Which is bare, because he’s pulled up my shirt.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh, don’t move,” he orders, moving a pen over my skin. “You’re the closest thing I have to write on.”
I snicker, closing my eyes again. He’d better not be using a Sharpie. That’ll take days to get off.
The peaceful noise of the rain outside lulls me back into relaxation, and I fold my arms under my head, feeling the felt tip move quickly over my skin, stopping every so often to dot an “I” or poke a period.
“I wish we could stay here forever,” I muse.
“Oh, you’re not moving anytime soon. Your ass is too nice to look at.”
I cross my legs at the ankles, teasing, “Is that all a Thunder Bay boy can do with a girl’s ass?”
A light slap hits my right cheek, and I laugh.
But then, after a pause, he stops writing. “Have you ever…” he asks, drifting off.
It takes me a moment to connect the dots, but then I realize what he’s asking.
“Anal?” I clarify. “Well, considering I’ve only had sex once before you, I’m sure you know the answer to that.”
I certainly wouldn’t have done that the first time, no matter how naïve I was. And since Misha and I haven’t done that, then of course, the answer is no.
“So we’re virgins then,” he says, his tone making it sound like he’s kind of enjoying that idea.
“Yeah, virgins,” I grumble. “And I plan on dying one, because there’s no way you’re sticking that in there.”
He snorts, breaking into a laugh.
Capping the pen, he moves up and over me, lifting my shirt over my head. I arch my neck back, meeting his mouth and kissing him. His teeth nibbling my skin sends an electric shock down my belly and straight between my thighs.