Page 54 of Man On

He touched me.

It wasn't me doing it to myself, using the excuse of his torment. I suppose I could still use it as an excuse. His closeness was agonizing. I was tormented by his smell, his skin touching mine. A violent shudder runs through my body as I remember the nip of sharp teeth on my Adam's apple, the warm wet slide of his tongue. I thought there'd be a mark where he bit me, but after staring at my reflection until the steam covered the bathroom mirror last night, I couldn’t find one.

I'm still unsure what to think about the stab of disappointment that followed my breath of relief. How can someone be relieved and disappointed at the same time? And why would I be disappointed about not having his bite marks on my throat? Everyone would see them. I'd see them. I'd have to remember every single time I saw them, or pressed my fingers against the bruises. The reminder could set me off, make his voice come back. Or it could make me want Noah more.

My stomach rumbles—with hunger or uneasiness, I'm not sure.

I should really get up. Noah is probably still asleep; I could slip into the bathroom and maybe grab something to eat without having to face him. My hand reaches for my phone to look at the time. Not to read all his texts again. The ones I stared at in confusion for an hour after confirming that classes would be canceled because of a hurricane off the coast. There were no classes or practice yesterday, and they were both canceled for today, too. We're a few hours inland, and unlikely to experience any especially hazardous conditions, but it's definitely too windy and rainy to be outdoors. It’s supposed to start clearing up soon. I just hope everything dries up enough that our game isn’t canceled for Saturday night; our parents are supposed to be coming up to see us play.

I'm still staring at my phone, the same way I have been since avoiding Noah all day yesterday. Aside from sneaking out for the bathroom and food, I’ve mostly hidden in my room since the incident in the kitchen, and when I couldn’t stay cooped up anymore, I went down and hung out with Danny, Peters, and a few of the other guys. Miah was here playing video games when I got back late yesterday afternoon, so I didn’t have to deal with being grilled by Noah. To his credit, he’s given me space.

Then again, maybe he wasn’t as into it as I thought. Maybe I’m the only one even thinking about it. No. He touched me. He...wanted me.

He didn't say it, but I felt it. I felt it. It's what made me drop the idea of control, and just let him take what he wanted.

What I wanted.

Because I wanted it. I do want it.

And I don't know how to stop. That, more than my fear and shame over what happened, is what has kept me hiding from him for the last twenty-four hours. But I can’t hide forever.

I slip quietly out of bed to use the bathroom and brush my teeth. Then I tiptoe to the kitchen to grab a couple bananas and fill a large water bottle.

I eat a banana while I flip through my textbooks, many of which are digital, so I use my tablet to flip through them. My eyes keep traveling to my bookcase, where my grandfather's Bible seems to glow. I'm sure it's just a trick of the light, but once I see it that way, I can't see it any other way.

"Sickness." "I'm trying to help you, Isaiah."

I shake the voice from my head. These are memories I don't need right now, while we're likely to be cooped up for another day.

I am in control.

Dropping to the floor, I do push-ups until my arms burn. And then I do some more. I pull back before I go overboard, lying face down on the floor. I think of the child’s pose and doing yoga with Noah, and I smile into the cool flooring. When Noah gets up, I can hear his footsteps reverberating through the wood planks of the floor.

I'm not brave enough to confront him in person. I can’t even force myself to text him until I hear him close the door to the shower. His phone pings from his room, where it lays somewhere in his messy, unmade bed. He left his door open, and I can see into his space. I send him another couple of messages, watching his phone light up. When the water turns off, I scramble back into my room to hide, sitting on the edge of my bed and staring between my door and phone.

Lane: Sorry I’ve been avoiding you. I get in my head.

Lane: I suppose you know that already, though.

Lane: What was your idea that you wanted to talk to me about?

My knee bounces uncontrollably while I listen to him exit the bathroom, walk to his room, and close the door. Maybe it's my imagination, but I think he walks close to my door on the way to his room that is directly across from mine. Within a few moments, the messages I've sent him are marked read. Three dots appear on the screen.

Noah: How are you doing this morning?

Noah: With being in your head, I mean?

I frown. He hasn't answered my question. I'm not a huge fan of small talk, but I suppose he's just being nice and I should take it at face value.

Lane: I'm alright.

Noah: Liar.

Rolling my eyes, I look at the door, as if reminding myself he can't see me, before replying more honestly.

Lane: I'm not completely alright.

Noah: ...

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