Page 58 of The Kiss of Deception

My ears explode in a strident ringing, a steadfast peeeeeeeeeeee, no respite.

All I see is nothing, blinking and blinking and only blackness.

Something liquid trickles down my face, hot, steady, sticky. A waterfall of blood, tears, terror.

I don’t know, don’t realize, at which point I drop to the floor again.

The solid softness tickles my cheek, whispers in my ear, soothes me, soaks up my blood, my life.

Consciousness slips from me with the pain until I feel what I see.

Nothing.

Chapter Fourteen

Miles

Bold and black and enigmatic, the words stare at me from behind the cold white of my screen.

Zoe: I can’t be with you anymore. This isn’t working. We’re not working. I’m leaving. Please, don’t come after me. I don’t want to see you again. I’m sorry.

Though enigmatic isn’t the correct word. The message couldn’t be clearer. It just doesn’t make any sense.

What, exactly, is not working? Our relationship that technically doesn’t exist?

She can’t be with me? Anymore? She wants to put an end to our deal?

She’s leaving? Leaving what, who, where? That seems a little extreme.

Most of all, she’s apologizing? Of her own free will? Suspicious.

All thoughts and hypotheses my brain forms end with a question mark.

I was in the middle of a particularly torturous physical therapy session, still recovering from my injury, when my phone pinged once. I’d been immensely thankful for the distraction and mildly delighted—and surprised—to find Zoe’s name awaiting on the screen.

We don’t text often. Well, Zoe doesn’t text me often. I, however, slightly overuse her number. In our long thread of texts, the only bubble from her side is a grid of four pictures taken with her phone for social media purposes, swallowed and smashed between the long list of my lengthy audio messages she probably never listens to.

I scroll until I find the pictures, painting my fingerprint over them for the thousandth time.

One after the other, I trace the evolution of the blush on her cheeks. I’ve memorized it at this point, every hue and every shape, as it grows and deepened until it illuminates her face in the most intimate light.

She’s absolutely exquisite. Otherworldly. Made of things that transcend this world, moonlight and stardust and fucking magic.

It’s in her eyes. Up close and in real life, they’re not just blue or green or gray, always greedy to be all the colors. Yet it’s dark, their hue on my screen.

Much like her eyes, Zoe remains an enigma I can't decipher. Every time I think I’m close, a new light tilts from a different angle upon her, showing me a little more of her—and I’m left to frame the person I know within a past I don’t know.

Every time I feel remotely confident that we’re making progress, she proves me to be but a hopeful fool.

One step forward, ten fucking steps back.

The screen goes black for the third time.

When in doubt, the answer is a joke. Isn’t that what I always do? Steer the conversation with a laugh to safer territory. Especially—particularly—when it comes to Zoe.

Why stop now? Why divert from a philosophy that has proved oh-so fruitful?

Miles: What about the summer wedding we’ve been planning so diligently? I refuse to let all my Pinterest boards go to waste.

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