Page 28 of Meating Dalton

“She’s not a risk,” I lie, folding my arms, feigning nonchalance. The stink eye he gives me says enough. He’s no fool.

“We’re working things out,” I amend.

“How? What did you do?” He drops the stub of a cigarette, squishing it beneath his leather combat boots. I don’t comment on his fashion sense, but my tongue burns to say something. What did he ask me?

Snapping my fingers when the gist of the conversation returns to me, I debate lying again. What could it hurt? He’d probably tell me to fuck a corpse or something.

“She got a little upset over her ex’s head being in my fridge,” I grumble, eyes on the dirt. Maybe Uncle Dick can hire someone else if he’s getting old. I wonder what Aunt Shirley is up to these days. She always made a damn good shepherd’s pie.

“Zac!” Deaton snaps at me, face flushed red. “Are you shitting me right now? Did you fuck her?” My lips twist at having to admit something as private and special as what I shared with Natalia. I nod my head, looking away from his judgment.

He’s breathing heavily, pacing away from me, mumbling under his breath. I fail to see the problem. It’s not like she knows Deaton exists. Whirling on me, black hair flaring out, he points a finger painted black in my direction.

“Fix it and do not bring your ass around here until you do. I don’t care how, just do it,” he snarls, stalking toward the building a few feet away, looking like a goth kid’s wet dream.

Fuck. Feeling resigned, albeit less murderous than moments before, I march back toward my motorcycle. Even if she’s pissed and disgusted with me, my cock still twitches at seeing her again.

* * *

Pushing the door open, stepping into the house, I instantly know she’s gone. Dread pools in my stomach and I race upstairs, boots pounding on the wood. Bursting into my empty bedroom, I resist screaming the fucking house down. She’s not here and I don’t need to search the whole fucking house to know it.

She left me. Just like I told her she could. What the fuck was I thinking?

“Nat,” I whine, pausing when I notice a piece of paper on my nightstand. Rushing over, nearly tripping in my haste, I snatch it up, eyes scanning the contents quickly. The fuck?

Dear Dalton,

Please don’t come looking for me. I’m not saying stay away forever, but I need some space, time to think. You have to know our situation is unusual. You kidnapped me and murdered my ex. I need time to process that and what happened between us the night before. I enjoyed every bit of it, you know I did. But, please, give me some space. You’ll probably watch me anyways, but I’ll signal when I’m ready to talk.

Love, Natalia.

No. She can’t do this. She—My thoughts freeze, tongue going numb. Space? What the fuck is space?

My butt sinks onto my mattress, brain frozen, unwilling to process Natalia’s absence. My body hungers for her and she needs… space. I can do space, my head nodding as I think through the best ways to win her over. I don’t even fucking care about finding my birth parents. All I want is Natalia, my little cacao flower.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Count your fucking days, Natalia. Soon, you’ll be back home, my flower. Soon.

SPACE

NATALIA

Agarish pink door stares at me, silently asking if I’ll knock. I remember sitting on the hood of a car, sun beaming down on me in my denim shorts and tank top, a wine cooler in my hand, watching my eight-year-old niece paint, sloppily slinging it everywhere. Sarah and I giggled, content to let her have fun. We shared a smile and a knowing look.

Our parents never said it and neither did Sarah, but each time her test score surpassed mine or her report cards boasted more A’s, I withdrew more and more. Leaving home for college was the most freeing thing I could’ve done.

Several shitty boyfriends and years of therapy later, Sarah and I reconciled, shedding the animosity of our youth, allowing her to open the door into her life with Lauren to me. I never appreciated it more until now. Before I lose my nerve, my knuckles rap on the door, anxiously waiting for my little sister to open the door for me again. I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t after the last thing I said.

It eases open cautiously, a wary Sarah running shrewd eyes up and down my frame.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, tears clogging my throat. Wordlessly, she throws the door open and pulls me into a hug.

All the emotions of the past forty-eight hours race to the surface and I sag against her, letting out wrenching sobs, body shaking with the force of my tears. I missed my sister, tightening my grip on her. It was a stupid, selfish thing for me to say the last time I spoke to her and pales compared to everything I’ve experienced lately.

I needed this, inhaling her sweet vanilla scent, letting it calm me, nostalgia welling up. Sarah has used the same shampoo since the day our mother let us start picking out our own hair products.

It grounds me. Why couldn’t figuring things out with Dalton be this easy?

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