Page 9 of From Square One

“What are you talking about?”

Aaron pauses. I stare at him from my pillow, my blood crystallizing into snowflakes. He doesn’t answer right away, and everyone’s hesitation around me—their silent contemplation that stretches for hours, like the wrong words might wound me—is driving me mad. Finally, he asks, “Nobody told you why your things are in boxes?”

A sense of dread expands in my abdomen. No way. I know what he’s about to say, but it can’t possibly be true.

“You moved in with me and my dads two months ago,” he says, the confirmation a dagger between my ears. “After the accident, your dad asked me to bring your things here so you could heal at home. I figured you didn’t need the added stress and did as I was asked.” His pale eyes flicker with irritation. “They didn’t tell you that you’ve been living with me?”

I can’t hear myself breathing. My vision tunnels in as my eyes move to the dangling calendar, stuck on April, only half the weeks filled out. The reason I didn’t flip it. The reason the boxes are here. The reason Logan has been so tense.

I left.

“No,” I choke out. “I wouldn’t abandon my family. I’m not that kind of person. That’s so…” My chest is tightening, my breaths leaving in short, violent punches. I throw my hands over my eyes. It’s too much. My inner child, who I’ve wrangled into silence over the years, is kicking and screaming. I want to damn the consequences and hit the wall until my knuckles break, or screech until my lungs give out. I threw away my responsibilities, my family, my life, and for what?

The bed creaks under his weight, his jeans grazing my sweatpants. “Breathe, okay?” he says, and he reaches out, like he wants to furl his hand over my back, before promptly wincing and seizing his own wrist to keep himself from touching me.

“The paint,” I gasp out, a feeble attempt at distraction. “My room. It’s painted. There are pictures on the walls. Your dads run a handyman business…Did they do this?”

“Their third partner did.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

I peek between my fingers, startled out of my near meltdown.

“They’ve apprenticed me since I was little,” he explains. “I did summer coursework after graduation to cover some of the legal aspects, and they brought me into the business. Though, I can’t handle larger cases until I have my contractor’s license. I’m good at working with my hands.”

Suddenly, the memory of opening my bedside drawer lurches to the front of my mind. I don’t want to ask for clarity, but I’m so painfully lost, and Aaron seems like the only person willing to offer answers. Maybe they’re all lies, or twisted truths, or exaggerations, but it’s information I don’t have.

I won’t match his immaturity—I can handle this subject without acting like a blushing maiden. So I lower my palms, and confidently ask, “Did we really have sex?”

I blush immediately.

It’s humiliating, but I can’t help it. I’ve never dated anyone. I figured my chances of finding someone who could tolerate my severe eating restrictions and unpredictable roller coaster of physical discomfort would be next to none. If I ever saw someone interesting around school, I squashed whatever butterflies stirred in my stomach.

Aaron allows the silence to linger, and this time it’s fully intentional, like he wants to tease me with the weight of anticipation. I can’t look him in the eye—he’s probably wearing the most gleeful, insufferable expression.

“Yes,” he says, calmer and more matter-of-fact than I expect. “We’ve had sex.”

My airway narrows. The thought of letting Aaron be intimate with me…I might panic again. “How many times?” I croak.

Aaron laughs, and I resist plunging my face back into my hands, because who am I kidding? I can’t tackle this subject with grace and poise. “I didn’t think to count,” he admits, his teeth glittering under the golden lighting of the bedside lamp. “Should I guess? Or recount every memory in detail? To help you remember, of course. Or I can show you my poor, suffering back.”

“Your back?” I squeak out, my eyes spinning.

Something strange happens. A sharp, lightning-like zap rips through my skull, so brief that I wonder if I imagined it. Then I feel…something. Skin. Under my nails. I’m raking my fingers down a stretch of flesh, but it’s not my own, because I don’t feel the sting.

I smack my forehead and the sensation evaporates.

“Hasn’t your head been through enough?” Aaron asks with nervous laughter.

Vomiting isn’t one of my typical medical issues, but I’m dangerously close to projectile expelling the contents in my stomach. I can’t discern whether the nausea stems from self-geared anger or disgust at the thought of him touching me. I need this guy out of my room before he tells me anything else worth gagging over, so I fly to my feet, then seize Aaron’s wrist and hoist him to his.

“I don’t have any more questions,” I say sternly. “You can leave now.”

“You’re kicking me out because we’ve had sex?” Aaron asks with a rage-inducing snicker. “Really, what did you expect? We’ve been dating over a year, we lived together for two months, and in case you didn’t hear, I’m in love with you. Plus, you’re a pretty blond thing who turns red when I tease you. Do you think I’m well behaved enough to keep my hands to myself?”

My mortification is so overwhelming that I want to rip my hair from my scalp. “I’m not some piece of meat!” I cry out, pushing him toward my bedroom door. Too late do I remember his promise to pull whenever I push, and sure enough, he gathers my wrists into one palm. Rather than tugging, though, he steps into my space, prompting me to backpedal into the door.