Page 50 of Warmer, Colder

Despite her body’s instinctual reaction. She doesn’t say anything else. She simply curls up on her side in resignation. One by one, I watch her tears fall into my pillow, staining the same fabric that’s absorbed my own so many times over the last year.

I hate seeing my mom broken. I hate more that I did this to her.To them.Another mess I’ve made. But there’s nothing I can do to fix it. The only thing I can do is stay out of their way andlet them heal. It’s what I should do. What I will do. But for right now, I choose selfishness because I still need my mom.

Walking around to the other side of the bed, I lay down as gently as I possibly can so as not to disturb her, then curl up behind her. I don’t wrap my body around hers, but I pretend that the few inches between us aren’t there and that she’s holding me close.

As if she can sense me, she grabs the remote and puts on Pride and Prejudice. And for the first time in months, we fall into our old bad-day routine. For one hundred and twenty-seven minutes, I try my hardest to let myself enjoy this rare comfort, but there’s one thing that remains constant on my mind: Stasi. I can’t help but draw the parallels between our constant head-butting and Elizabeth and Darcy. Maybe if I’m willing to admit that I was wrong and she can let go of her grudge, things could be different.

I know I dragged her down with me, damned her to this deep well. At the bottom looking up, surrounded by darkness on all sides, we’ve been trying to find our own way out, but maybe we can find our way back to the surface together. Could we find freedom in each other? There has to be some kind of peace to be found. I have to try, don’t I?

Chapter 23

Stasi

70 Days Dead

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.” Becca declares, head held high with entitlement, as she crosses the room and stands at the side of the bed next to me. No ‘can I come in’. No ‘hey, Stasi’. She’s been ignoring me for days after the abrupt end to our last confrontation. Now she sits here expectantly, the weight of her eyes is an irritating itch.

Avoiding her gaze, I let out a long sigh and roll onto my back. I burn holes in the ceiling, so she doesn’t see the relief swelling within me along with my self-disgust at the way I already feel lighter with her presence. “Well, that’s too bad, isn’t it? I don’t want to do this anymore, Becca. I’m tired of this hot and cold.”I meant what I said about being used.As much as I want her to see the error of her ways, maintaining the power balance is crucial or I’m going to get destroyed in the process.

“So am I.”

Warmer.That genuine need in her voice causes my restraint to quiver like an exhausted muscle.

Her feet shuffle as she comes closer. “I don’t want to fight anymore. I—I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Warmer. God, she’s giving me exactly what I want. Exactly what I’ve yearned for.Still, I don’t give in, holding steady to the spiteful dismissal she deserves. The minutes stretch on and on—me ignoring her, her standing there awkwardly—but eventually, she breaks her silence. “C’mon, Stasi. Are you really going to make me beg?”

Fucking inferno.That gets my attention. Of course, I want to hear her beg. “Try me.”

“I want you to help me. Ineedyou to help me.” It’s a start. “You’re going to make me work for this aren’t you?” The heavy silence answers for her. “You’re right, okay. I am a liar. But I don’t want those barriers between us.” This gets my attention, and I watch transfixed as her shaking hands throw her flannel to the floor and then tug her top over her head. “It’s what I do best, play pretend.” I keep my eyes on hers, even when her shorts hit the floor, leaving her in just her panties that I’ve been dying to see. “At some point, I let my fear of other people’s judgments force me into a box, and then I helped them close the lid. I never even tried to get out, never even thought about it.” Becca clears her throat, trying to dislodge the sticky words that are hard for her to get out. “I told myself the box was comfortable, that I wanted to be in there. That I was safe.” She scoffs at herself. “I never was . . . safe . . . though.”

Stockholm syndrome is a common side effect of comp-het.I don’t say it out loud because we’re not interpreting this the same way. She thinks her individuality and sexuality has been repressed, but it’s so much more than that. She’s missing an entire aspect of her identity. It’s stuffed into a forgotten, dark corner of that box.Theycut that piece out of her like a problematic fucking growth. With their razor-sharp taunts cast from sweetly pink lips. Treatinglesbian, gay, and queerlike dirty, forbidden things. I’ll admit it even took me a few years to grow comfortable in that aspect of my identity, until the loathing lilt they’d said those words with faded away and was replaced with enthusiastic pride. I told people I was lesbian without hesitation, it had become a crucial part of who I was.

She continues, “I don’t know how to be anything different. But I want to try. I can’t keep living like—I can’t keep doing this. I can’t spend eternity lost and afraid.”

Finally, I turn to her. “What makes you think I can help with that?” It’s an effort to keep my voice neutral because all I want is to be needed—wanted—by her, for anything, for everything.

“Because I want to try. And, like you said, our chemistry doesn’t lie.” Becca’s cheeks blush like she’s just as shocked by her brazenness as I am.

Something like hope rattles awake within my chest and I know I should crush it, her confidence in me and that seed of desperation that’s blossoming inside me as a result, but I can’t seem to get the biting words out. That deep longing to be hers, in whatever way, peeks its head out of that hole it’s been hiding in. Slithering amongst my resolve, I know I only have a brief window to shut this down before it sinks its teeth into me and the need for her infects me again.

“I’m not some sex toy you can pull out and play with.” Instead of words lashing at her, there’s a pleading undertone that I hate.Please don’t use me like all the others.

“That’s not what I’m doing.” The conviction drains from her voice.

“What changed? What happened to you not being into women? I thought I was just a drunken mistake…”

“Maybe it was a lie.” She steps closer to me.

“Maybe?” My hands fit around her narrow hips, thumbs caressing the sides of her Medusa tattoo that guards her possessively. The snakes writhe with her unease at the touch.Slow and steady, Stasi. You’re so close.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this? Just a few days ago…” I search for the right words, skirting around the distressed reaction she had to my touch. “Just a few days ago, you made it clear that you didn’t want my hands on you.”

“I’m confused, isn’t this what you wanted?” A protective arm wraps around her chest.

“This isn’t just about me. Do I want to fuck you? Yes. God, yes, I do. But good sex is about communication.” I let go of her. “If you can’t even bear to be naked around me, then I don’t think now is the right time to do this.”

Becca’s hands capture my wrists, and she places my palms on her small breasts, our gasps mirroring each other—mine of surprise, hers of what sounds like need.

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