Page 90 of Look, Don't Touch

“There’s no guarantee things would have turned out differently. She would have had to make a change.”

The memory of blood washes over me.

Two pools of it. Two bodies. And the third one, very much alive.

Then my bloody hands.

For the first time in a long time, my body doesn’t convulse.

“Cheating doesn’t warrant a death sentence,” Nat decrees.

No, it shouldn’t.

“It did for them and me too, in a way.” I step back from their graves and look at my aunt. “A little for you too. The lives we thought we’d have were over that day.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I closed off a part of myself to make sure something like this would never happen to me.”

“You can change that.”

My aunt drops to her knees in front of my mother’s grave. Her elegant hand smoothes over the stone. “I’m sorry I couldn't help you when you needed it, Ari. I forgive you for not letting me, and I forgive myself.”

She stays there for a while, talking more quietly to her sister, and then she speaks to my dad. When she’s finished, she stands, steps back, and motions me forward.

Part of my heart tugs me forward, but I remain rooted.

“I’m not ready to forgive.”

“Not even for yourself?”

Tears slip down my face.

I head for the car. Sorrow and fear weigh me down, making my steps drag. It’s like I’ve taken three steps forward with Arlo, and the instinct to turn and flee dogs my heels. The impulse is rabid and its teeth are fucking sharp.

How can love feel so good and right one minute and leave three people dead the next? How am I supposed to trust the good feeling Arlo gives me, when it can turn to dust so quickly?

I cry myself to sleep in the back cabin with Plinko tucked between my boobs. When I wake, the itch is back. It tickles every inch of my skin. The need. The craving. Only this time, it’s more complex than ever before.

Part of me yearns for the blindfold and the bench. Another needs the scrape and burn of the needles staining my skin. The other, newest part, wants nothing more than to get lost in Arlo’s scent, the heat of his skin, the depth of his sad and mysterious eyes.

I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling for a while. Plinko stretches out beside me as though used to the obscene thread count and abundance of catnip. I imagine Arlo lying in this very spot. It’s his place, after all. Do I want him beside me right now?

Yes, more than anything.

So I pick up my phone and text my tattoo artist. We have several designs ready to go at all times for when the itch arrives. It’s always sudden and always desperate. He’s used to me and my weird quirks.

After a few minutes, he texts back with three design options that he can squeeze into the late afternoon. We settle on one and a time. With a plan in place, the itch recedes. The desire to see Arlo doesn’t. My fingertips wiggle with the need to touch him. My nipples pucker and my thighs clench.

I grab my phone and type again.

I need to hear my favorite sound.

A moment later, my phone rings. It’s a heady sense of power that I don’t deserve.

“Hello, Hailey.” That thin rasp shoots straight to my clit and my chest. I ignore the latter.

“Arlo, I don’t deserve you.” There’s sadness in my voice and joy too.

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