Page 63 of Beyond the Bright Lights

“Ask me something else,” she whispers.

I think about the other interesting thing that happened tonight. “Have you never been on top before?”

She snorts and sighs. “Yes, but it’s been a while.”

I wait for her to keep talking because she has more to say. She’s working up the courage to explain.

“Not since Tyler . . . when I was skinny.”

“Lana,” I warn.

“Don’t.” She tugs on the sheets, not to cover herself but more to keep her hands busy while her mind gathers her thoughts. “I love myself and my body. I do, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have insecurities. After Tyler, I thought I was broken, because every man I’d been with since . . . well . . . they weren’t good. I don’t know if that’s because I didn’t allow them to be or if I was holding back. And was I holding back because of my grief or because my body was changing, and I hadn't learned to love it like I do now? I basically gave up. I stopped trying to discover what I liked. Sex became unenjoyable.”

“Sounded like you enjoyed it with me.”

She laughs and slaps my chest and I pretend it hurt.

“You're only good because you’re a sex addict.”

“Self-diagnosed.”

She snorts and turns on her side to look at me. I do the same.

“When’s the last time you had sex?” she asks.

“Three months ago.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, not expecting that answer.

“Three months is the last time I remember, at least. It’s possible I slept with someone since while high or drunk, which is why I got tested in rehab.”

“You said you like to have control when it comes to sex. That doesn’t sound like you had control.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “The downside of hitting rock bottom—you lose control over everything, including the things you take pride in. I can’t tell you how many times I’d pass out, wasted in the middle of parties. Me being unconscious didn’t stop people from stripping me down and taking advantage of my naked body, snapping pictures and selling it to those shitty tabloids. My lawyers were able to get them taken down pretty fast, but the damage was already done. The pictures were shared and re-shared and they were everywhere. So, yeah, I lost control over my body, and consequently sex, which is why it’s important I have that control back.”

She rests her palm on my cheek, and I close my eyes at the intimate touch—more intimate than what we just did five times.

“Oh, Mylan.”

Her words are full of compassion. Not pity, like most. That's what I love about her.

Love.

I tuck the word away in the depths of my heart. “Why do you do the key thing at the bar?” I ask, changing the subject once again. I had to, afraid that her compassion for me, for my failures, will turn into the pity I hate and fear.

She scrunches up her nose, and I fight the urge to lean forward and give it a little kiss.

“I told you my parents died when I was nine?”

"You did.”

“It was a drunk driver.” Her words are so quiet, I barely heard. “My parents were coming home from their anniversary dinner. The driver swerved into their lane, hit them head-on, and sent their car rolling into the ditch and a pole. My father died instantly. My mom . . . she suffered. She was impaled by a piece of wood from that utility pole. She sat there, bleeding out until the ambulance arrived—”

Tears cut off her words and I pull Lana onto my chest, rubbing her back and kissing the top of her head.

“The driver left a bar, like the one I now own. He'd had too many drinks, but the place was too busy to notice.” She wipes her tear-covered cheek on my bare chest, and I don’t even care. She could cry a river onto my body and let me drown if it’d make her feel better.

“What happened to the driver?”

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