Page 57 of White Room Virgin

With my head pounding, I shuffled into the kitchen, desperate for water. I greedily gulped down a glass of tap water and poured another, vowing never to drink alcohol again. The clock was already past twelve. I had slept through the whole morning, but the night with my friends had been worth it. After I finally managed to distract myself from the confusion surrounding Lucien, I had a lot of fun and even chatted with a few women.

I hadn’t realized I had a knack for flirting—yet Oliver had remarked that he could learn a thing or two from me. I hadn’t even felt like I was doing anything out of the ordinary. I was just being myself. Certainly, I couldn’t deny that alcohol had aided in loosening me up. Moreover, my dialect appeared to serve as an icebreaker; the moment I spoke, it was apparent to everyone that I wasn’t local—a perfect conversation starter. Well, come to think of it, the women were the ones who initially broke the ice. All I’d managed to do was draw attention to myself with some casual comments. But it was really fun. It also boosted my self-esteem because I couldn’t help but notice the looks the women gave me. They looked at me like …

Lu.

But it feels different with him somehow.

And the carousel of thoughts picked up speed again. Shame and guilt surged within me. Yes, I enjoyed the attention. Yet, it held no significance for me.

I set the empty glass down on the counter and returned to my room. Exhausted, I fell into bed and crawled back under the covers. I didn’t want to think about Lu. Thinking about him exhausted me and left me at a loss. Ever since we’d had sex, I kept seeing him in front of me, with his naked upper body andsuch a mesmerizing smile that I wondered where this Lu had gone. At dinner a week ago, he seemed completely off.

I wondered what this anniversary is all about.

That’s when I heard the front door. Half asleep, I had seen Martin leave the apartment. Apparently, as he often did, he hadn't locked the door. A draft came in from the stairwell and slightly opened my ajar bedroom door. I lay there motionless and stared at the gap that, despite my willpower, didn’t get smaller on its own.

“Hey, did you hear me?” shouted Martin.

“I told you I wanted it that way!” Lucien replied emphatically.

What’s going on here?

“Nonsense! Someone like that should be locked up!”

“You didn’t have to come.”

They walked past my room and into the kitchen.

“She called me completely upset! You should be happy that she found you, otherwise you would have frozen to death! Are you going to do this shit every year now?”

“What else am I supposed to do, damn it!” Lucien replied desperately.

“I told you, my door is open!”

“I’m… I’m fine.”

“Don’t kid yourself! Your hands are still shaking. Sit down! I’ll make you some tea.”

Chairs scraped against the floor, and it was quiet for a while. I sat up and listened. The sound of the kettle emanated from the kitchen, and shortly afterward, someone—probably Martin—set cups on the table.

“How did you end up there anyway?” Martin asked calmly.

“Can’t we talk about something else?” Lucien’s voice was barely audible.

“No, we can’t. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”

Lu remained silent.

“If not the police, at least do me a favor and get tested, okay?”

“That’s not necessary,” Lucien muttered.

What the hell …?

It had been three weeks since I’d hurt Lucien like that. Most of that time, I had been preoccupied with self-flagellation and insomnia—and, naturally, avoiding Lucien. That night when we’d eaten spaghetti, I hadn’t noticed the tense atmosphere until it escalated, and since then, I’d been struggling to get my head around the painful fact that it wasn’t about me at all.

Martin’s bossy tone was new to me. I had never encountered him in that manner before. And yet, his actions toward Lucien were nothing but caring. A cold shiver ran down my spine and I wondered how close the two of them really were. I cautiously pulled the door open and quietly stepped out into the hallway. I hesitantly entered the quiet kitchen. Martin had moved his chair to the head of the table, one hand on his cup, the other on Lucien’s shoulder. Lucien had his elbows propped up, with his forehead in both hands as he stared at the table. He had never looked so fragile and vulnerable. There was also a Band-Aid on his cheek. And even though he was wrapped in a gray army blanket, I could see his whole body shaking.

Is he crying? What had happened?

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