Page 103 of The Kiss of Deception

“I did. Thank you,” I say softly.

Zoe’s eyes are shadowed in the dim lighting of the bedside wall lamps, but they swim with something I’ve only dreamed of before. I want to stretch this moment forever.

“Let’s watch something?”

“Just one episode.”

Soon, Zoe is yawning next to me as we laugh at The Great. She yawns, again and again, until her eyelids become too heavy to stay open, her body too heavy to stay up. She sags against the pillow, quickly drifting off to sleep.

I can’t look away, overwhelmed by her mere existence here, by my side, at the same time, same place, same space as me. By coincidence, fate, or whatever God-entity, this is right.

Although every fiber of my being revolts, I make my way to leave. As soon as the mattress shifts without my weight, Zoe pats my pillow and murmurs, never unpeeling her eyes, her almost unintelligible voice heavy with sleep, “Let’s go to sleep.”

We don’t discuss it. An unspoken understanding—what’s done in the darkness of the night should not be brought up in the light of the day.

So, I don’t tell her how I wake up both nights, sweaty with the heat of her sticking to me, her face crushed against my bare back and her arm clinging around my torso. I don’t tell her she’s a cuddler, the big spoon spooning me in her sleep.

I know I’m using my mother’s presence as an excuse to steal touches and moments, but I don’t feel bad for a second. I’ll take, steal, and possess every second I can with Zoe—each of them overwhelming and never enough.

Suddenly, it’s clear.

I can’t possibly go back to just sharing a house in cold distance—who knows until when. It’s been over 3 months. Sooner or later, Zoe will call it time to end the deal—it’s only a wonder she hasn’t already. What will I say then?

The infatuation I fought and nurtured for a year is child’s play compared to what consumes me now. As much as I’ve tried to keep myself away in the wake of tragedy, my feelings for Zoe have only deepened to something that can’t be called love—something that can’t be bound or tamed by the English dictionary—and they seem to grow with every breath and every blink.

How am I supposed to ever let go when she’s the best part of me?

With Mom in town, and Zoe occupying the entirety of my mind’s landscape, I haven’t been able to start sorting through my mother’s—and my own—revelations, though it’s been nice to reconnect tentatively with Dad via text.

But I do know I refuse to have a repeat with her. I refuse to let all the things untold fester and steal my happiness.

Though I love my mom, part of me is (shamefully) glad she’s leaving. I drive her to the airport and see her off through gate 54 with heaviness in my heart, the nostalgia of a forever little boy who would always ache for a mother’s hug, and a renewed urgency to go home. I can’t wait and waste any more time.

My urgency morphs into dread as I swing the front door open and enter a horror movie.

Crimson, crimson, crimson.

Little puddles of crimson everywhere—covering tile, staining carpets, paving a path through stairs. Little paintings in shades of blood, abstract patterns of my nightmares.

The start of a movie I’ve seen before.

Heathers in the voice and beat of Surf Curse blasts through the home sound system, the walls shaking with the volume. Or maybe it’s me. I’m shaking.

“Zoe?” I call out, but I can’t tell if her name is a scream or a whisper with the thundering beat in my ears. “ZOE?”

Everything else looks the same. I think. I can’t really see past the red everywhere.

My heart constricts inside its cage. A thousand scenarios blend with memories, screaming in my mind and smothering the beat of the music.

What if it doesn’t have a happy ending, this time?

I screw my eyes shut, evicting all the what-ifs from my mind. Zoe needs me to remain level-headed, right now. It’s her rasp in my ear telling me not to lose my shit.

Keep it together, Blackstein. There’s a moment for everything, her voice, the voice of reason that never cracks under pressure, says. And it’s not time to freak out—yet.

Ironic, isn’t it? That the motive of my panic is the source of my strength, the glue keeping me from breaking.

I follow the crumbs. One thing at a time. If I can just do one thing at a time, take one step at a time, I won’t trip and fall down the precipice into the abyss of full panic. One step at a time.

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