Page 73 of Warmer, Colder

And yet, here she is, so very alive in this place of death.My little ember, still glowing amongst all this darkness.If I have to give her every last breath to rekindle her fire, I’ll gladly spend the rest of my eternity doing just that. I can’t let her suffer like this anymore, not when I’m right here. Not when I love her in a way that defies space and time. Not when I have forever to heal all the invisible wounds we carry between us.

Tugging her wrists from my grasp, Becca wraps her arms around my neck, crawls into my lap, and presses herself against my chest like she means to crawl inside my skin and hide there. If I could tear myself open and give her a safe place there, I would. If she asked it, I would. Being needed by her, it feels like home. I’ve resented her throughout the journey, but being with her again, it feels soright,that nothing before matters.

The lingering restlessness that’s been clawing at my insides is finally sated, the beast settling into a slumber in a blanket of carnage. But I wouldn’t change a thing if it meant we got here.

I cradle one hand behind her head, waiting to wrap my arm around her waist until the brief flare of tension leaves her muscles. “Is this okay?”

Becca nods and tightens her hold on me. I’m prepared to sit here for hours, days, a century if she asks it. This is peace.This is heaven.She’s made a believer of me.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, avoiding eye contact.

“For what?”

“Listening.”

I duck my head, catching her gaze. “All I want is to know everything about you.”

“I can’t even remember the last time someone asked me how I was. If I was okay.” She laughs shallowly. “Everyone assumes you’re fine if you have good grades, keep up your routines, and slap a smile on your face when they’re looking. I haven’t been okay in a very long time.” A few tears escape, despite her attempt to blink them away. When she goes to wipe them, I interlace our fingers and bring them down to her sides, catching them with my tongue instead. A groan releases from deep within me at the nourishment of her vulnerability and trust. For the first time in my life, I feel satisfied.

97 Days Dead

Contentment fits awkwardly on me, but I think I could get used to it. Especially if Becca continues to look at me like that. Leaning on her elbow, she stares down at me like I’m some renowned painting that she only has one chance to study. With squinted eyes, she surveys the canvas of my body, while her body presses into my side.

“What does the moth represent?” Lithe fingers trace the intricate design that sits high on my stomach just under my breasts.

A heavy sigh, something like relief, leaves me because, for the first time, I’m going to tell someone what it actually represents instead of saying some shit like, “it just looks cool” or “moths are pretty”. I’ll tell her that one truth, it’s the least I can do. Maybe chipping away at the lies that have built a shell around my heartwill help me get to a point where I can be honest with her about everything.

I clear my throat. “It’s the antithesis of a butterfly. Butterflies are pretty and likable.” My eyes flick to the butterflies tattooed on her arm.

“You are pr—”

I cut her off. I know I’m beautiful, I’m not fishing for compliments. There’s a point to all this I want her to hear. “They’re accepted as universally beautiful, I mean. They’re associated with sunny days, bright flowers, and lightness. But the moth, the moth is often overlooked. I wanted to be a butterfly so badly when I was younger, like all the other girls, but I realized eventually that I was more like a moth—their proclivity for the ethereal solitude of night and the way people often seem repulsed by them. Everything changed for me once I accepted that I’d never be a butterfly, but I could be beautiful in my own way. By accepting my body the way it was, and by finding my own way in the solace of my own little world. So, I got the tattoo for my eighteenth birthday.”

Becca hovers over me, the ends of her hair tickling my bare skin. “I’ve never seen you as anything but gorgeous. Kind of intimidating, but never anything less than beautiful.” She smiles and it’s the light I’ve been searching for.

I gravitate toward her, winding her hair around my fingers to pull her even closer.

“Ever since the first time I saw you, I compared you to one of those old paintings—lush, sensual, confident. Stasi, your beauty is one that transcends trends and narrow-minded bullshit.” She caresses the side of my face with the back of her fingers.

The tightness in my throat is uncomfortable. I’m used to people telling me how sexy, voluptuous, and desirable I am, but people rarely use gentle, refined words to describe me. It catches me off guard and sits awkwardly on my tattoo-covered skin. Theskin I claimed for myself, made my own so nobody else could define it for me. But as Becca trails kiss after kiss across my collarbones, my chest, and my stomach, I love that she leaves her mark burning hot at every point of contact.

“And what about this?” Her fingers trail over the script that says “All The Things She Said” across my throat. The scar isn’t there, but I can still sense where Nate cut it. The violent memory sends a shiver through me.

“A reminder,” I say simply.

“Of?”

“That being queer is okay. That just because other people feel the need to hide and be ashamed doesn’t mean I have to. I’m a lesbian; I wanted everyone to know that.” I stroke my fingers through her dark hair. “When I heard the song as a kid and then saw the music video, it utterly captivated me. It transcended me beyond the reality of school bullies and what my parents would think. I just had a visceral reaction to it, like I saw myself there on the screen, and heard myself through my headphones. It was a big part of me accepting who I was. So I enshrined it on my skin. I want that same, in-your-face queerness that that video projected, even if it was all a lie, even if it was a gimmick, it meant something to me.”

“I wish I was as brave as you.” She sighs.

“We all have our own journey,” I assure her, pulling her lips against mine.

Becca’s fingers undo the clasps of my top with ease; she’s getting good at taking what she wants. I brim with pride.

“I’m so glad you’re part of mine,” she says against my lips and I deepen our kiss. “These . . .” Her voice dips lower as she circles one nipple with her fingertip and the other with her tongue. “I think these might be my favorites.”

The nipple piercings were mostly aesthetic, but they were also another way to claim this body of mine. I felt like boys and menalways focused so much on my large breasts—they’d sexualized me against my will. Adorning my breasts in a way that made me feel like a work of art was a way to de-center the male gaze while further individualizing myself. “I do too. But I love when they’re covered with your mouth even better.”

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