Page 17 of Maybe You

I am hiding.

Hiding behind my scars.

Should I be?

There’s plenty of them, and they’re ugly as fuck.

Yeah, it’s safe to always hide, but the problem with hiding is that nobody will see you.

And I think…

I think, after all these years of hiding, I might finally want to be seen again.

THREE

I walk into work a couple of hours later, my head still buzzing with the revelations of the last few hours. I drop my backpack behind the front desk and go get the supplies from the maintenance closet, my movements automatic, mind a thousand miles away.

I round the corner.

And walk straight into a wall.

I stumble backward. The mop goes flying. Cleaning supplies rain down around me.

“What the fu—” is about all I manage to get out when a hand wraps around my wrist and steadies me.

I blink for a few moments to get my bearings back, and my eyes land on a familiar face. My shoulders slump, and I let out a sigh.

“Oh good,” I say. “You again. They should really get a better security system in this place.”

Sutton has what I by now suspect is his usual half-amused, mostly cocky grin on his face. “I only have the purest of intentions this time.”

“Are we sure pure is the word you were aiming for?”

“From time to time I surprise even myself,” he says.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Why are you here again?”

He slumps his shoulders theatrically, hanging his head for a moment before he abandons the kicked puppy look, glances up, and aims another grin my way. “Penile servitude.”

I stare at him. What?

“Penal?” I go with the word that makes more sense than what he had to offer. “Who’s imprisoning you?”

“I’m pretty sure the word is penile.”

I peer around the empty hallway because this has to be a prank, and somebody is probably filming this exchange.

There’s nobody here.

“Not in most circles,” I eventually say.

His eyes turn to the wall somewhere above my shoulder, and he stares at it with an unseeing gaze for a long, long moment, lips slightly parted. “Oh, this puts so many things in a whole new perspective.” He follows that with a sad headshake. “Oof. In that case, I did not sign up for what I thought I was signing up for.”

“What were you signing up for?” I ask.

“To be fair, it was more like I was forcefully volunteered.”

“Uh-huh. For?”

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