Page 102 of The Blood we Crave

One smell or sight, and I’m right back to experiencing the worst night of my life. I’m no longer in class or reading a book in my home, I’m in the closet, watching my mother die again.

I know vaguely that I’m in class, that people could be staring, but Henry is kneeling over my mother’s body, killing her and I can’t do anything about it. I can’t breathe or calm down. While the world moves around me. I am trapped in a snow globe, experiencing my trauma.

The only thing that has pulled me back, the only person who has cracked that snow globe, is Thatcher.

It’s not anything he does physically, but every single time he comes into those visions, everything feels better. When he steps into my mother’s bedroom, I forget everything else and I cling to him, let his memory make me feel safe, comfort me until I’m back to reality.

To everyone else, he is their worst nightmare.

But he has always woken me up from mine.

When we enter the side of his house, it’s mostly dark. I can barely make out the kitchen and the expensive couches in the living room. We climb a set of steps, followed by more walking. Everything is mostly a blur as he continues down a lengthy hallway.

The door to his bedroom opens with ease, his body turning sideways so that I don’t bang my head against the frame. Thatcher’s room is everything I expected it to be, but not at all at the same time.

My eager eyes take in every visible inch of the space. The impossibly high ceilings, eggshell-colored walls, and marble floors. His bed sits low to the ground, the white comforter looks freshly steamed and the pillows are organized perfectly. A sleek grand piano is tucked in the corner, and he has a desk against one of the walls.

It’s all very modern and clean. Exactly like I thought it would be, but it doesn’t seem lived in. There are no papers on his desk or shoes on the floor. No form of personalization or care, leaving it all very desolate.

I am so exhausted that I can barely appreciate being in his space. Finally within the walls of his home, where he dwells in private. Where everything smells like him.

He carries me easily to the bathroom, setting me down on my own two feet in front of the sink before walking towards the shower, hitting a button that makes water fall down from the ceiling from multiple different spouts. The gray-tiled stand-up shower probably costs more money than my entire house.

“Shower,” he mutters. “I’m going to use the spare. Just wait in my room until I come back with bandages. I’m assuming my bodywash and hair products work fine for you, or do I need to grab something else?”

I know my face is red and I’m secretly hoping the blood covers the sight of my embarrassment. I should’ve never told him about the bodywash. He’s never going to forget it.

“Yeah it’s fine.” I clear my throat. “You didn’t, I mean, you don’t have to do this. You could’ve just taken me home, contrary to what you believe. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m aware.”

I watch him walk to the door, pausing his hand on the knob, his back stiff. I say nothing, just stand still and wait. Wait for whatever it is he has to say.

“I heard you.” He wavers. “When you screamed, I heard you.”

The sound of the door clicking follows. I glued my eyes to where he once stood, digesting his words. Somehow, my desperate plea for help had been answered. He’d heard me.

It took me a while to make my way to the shower, stuck on some version of auto-pilot when I finally stepped beneath the stream of water. I took my time, lathering myself in his bodywash, rubbing the silky shampoo in my curls.

I must have lost track of time inside the steam, because by the time the water ran clear, letting me know that I’d successfully washed all the blood down the drain, the faint sound of music was drifting from outside. Piano keys humming in the distance.

Curiosity and excitement coils in my stomach. I click the shower off, wrapping a warm towel around my body, only then realizing I don’t have a change of clothes.

I chew the inside of my cheek, considering my options. Deciding that Thatcher has already seen me naked before, this isn’t any different. Even though this situation feels so much more… intimate. Soft. Quiet.

Everything that we are not.

My body throbs as I crack the door, steam bursting out into the bedroom. The music is much louder now, melodies floating from the keys. The bed is empty, a pile of clothes folded neatly atop them.

But Thatcher sits tucked in the corner, facing me as he plays the instrument in front of him like they are the same. One fluid piece. I can’t tell where he ends, and the key begins.

I could only imagine how many hours he’d sat in this room, in front of this very piano practicing, perfecting each little movement of his fingers.

His body sways and gives with every single note. Eyes closed as his wet hair falls in front of his face, so uncharacteristically disheveled at it, nearly takes my breath away. The black-collared shirt he is wearing isn’t buttoned, leaving his chest exposed.

The muscles in his stomach flexing as his fingers delicately fly across the black and white keys, blending them together so that you have no choice but to exist in his version of gray.

I’d heard nothing more beautiful, seen anyone more talented.

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