Page 54 of Toy Shop

He turns us to have me on top of him, exposing me to something I missed until now. On the right nightstand, three framed photos are organized to face the bed. I can tell they’re old, the low quality reserved for ancient film cameras and Alistair’s youth betraying their age.

But he’s not alone.

Next to him in each of the three photos is a stunning young woman. Her hair runs in long blonde waves down her back, her curvy figure must have been the source of envy to many.

Her eyes, the rich hue of maple syrup in them, are aimed at him. Admiring him.

“Who’s this?”

It sounds accusatory, though I really didn’t intend it to. Or did I? My emotions are an unchecked mess, and my insecurities latch on to the opening it provides.

My brain reverts to the dangerous comfort zone it’s resided in since I was fifteen; sex isn’t safe. Sex gets me into tight corners, into confusion and heartache.

I love Alistair. The side of him he allowed me into.

What about the hidden one?

He doesn’t answer. His chest caves in, the corners of his eyes slanting downward.

His hand lifts to my cheek. A haven a minute ago turns into a red flag, a warning sign.

The longer he’s silent, the more I’m reverting to crime documentaries I’ve watched. The serial killers severely obsessed with the one who got away, the one who broke their hearts into shreds. How they hunt for their lookalikes and teach them a lesson.

And while Alistair doesn’t strike me as the murderous type, I admit I don’t know what to make of this.

I avert to the left, pulling from his touch, and stumble to the other side of the bed.

“Nola…”

“What is this, Alistair?” Stress tears well behind my eyes, my lungs struggling to function. “Is this some sick game, you trying to replicate your ex?”

“Nola, please.” His tone lacks his usual aplomb. “It’s hard for me.”

“Ha.” I croak out an indignant laugh. I’m not mocking him; I’m scared shitless, taking another step back. “What about me? What about my feelings? What am I supposed to think when you’re not saying anything?”

He stares at the bed before returning his wounded eyes to me.

“Please explain this to me.” My scarred heart and lips beg him in unison. “It can’t… I refuse to let it end. I’m sure there’s a decent explanation for all of this, and you have to give it to me.”

His forehead crinkles. “It might tear us apart, either way. Fuck. I brought you here because I didn’t want to hide it anymore. I just didn’t imagine how excruciating it’d be to attach words to the photos.”

This isn’t my Alistair. Then again, I’m not the Nola he met a few weeks ago. I’m alive, thanks to him. And I can’t be that ungrateful, to have him care for me and aid in obliterating my shitty past, only to not stop for a minute and breathe. To listen.

On shaky feet, I return to the bed. I clasp his hands in mine, both of us on our knees, naked, loving. “Whatever happened, it was long ago. I won’t freak out unless it’s the ex you can’t get out of your head.” I offer a shy smile to lighten the mood. “Or if you killed her. It would kinda be a hard pill to swallow.”

His features set into stone—eyes harden, lips flatten into a thin line, jaw tics. “What if I told you I have?”

We’re silent, painfully silent. My eyes search his for the lie. He gives me nothing.

“You can’t,” I peep, body quivering. “N—no, not you.”

“Yes, me.”

“No!” I shout to his face, my disbelief demanding I undo the last five minutes. “You’re not a killer. You can’t be.”

“But I am. I killed my sister, Connie. Then my parents.”

My head is shaking violently. I feel my brain jostling inside. “You couldn’t have.”

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