Page 7 of My Lovely Tragedy
But every single thing that is wrong in this moment doesn’t even come close to everything that’s right.
* * *
I am notsure how long I stand there, staring into the flames, Brooklyn’s lone presence heavy at my back, before I remember I am, in fact, covered in blood and dirt from the city.
Skin crawling at the realization, I flicker one last, lingering glance at the man taking up so much room in my cabin before I usher myself into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked in case he wakes.
Steam fills the room as I stand naked in front of the mirror. My tanned skin is flushed from the flames, my face even more so. The blood caked on my philtrum is dark and cracked. Brown and flaking off in some areas.
My eyes zero in on my nose, slightly swollen and angry from the abuse it took. My glasses cover the cuts from the frames, so I remove them and shuffle even closer to make out the marks through blurry eyes.
There are two small, neat lines on either side of the bridge of my nose. I trace each one with the tip of my index finger, smiling instead of wincing at the sting. They won’t scar. They are not nearly deep enough for that, but I relish in the blurred sight of them and the thought that it will take time for them to heal.
It’s strange, seeing something amiss in my usually composed persona.
A flash of oddity. A break in the pattern.
And even as I wash away the blood and the traces of the life outside, the memories still cling to me. A new design taking place. Stronger, yet strangely more delicate.
It’s disconcerting and rejuvenating—the possibility of the unfamiliar.
By the time the hot water runs out, I’m feeling lax and exhausted. Sleep tugs at the edges of my vision, but I manage to make it up to my loft and into sleep clothes before collapsing in the chair in front of the couch. After setting a bottle of water on the table in Brooklyn’s line of sight—and with him in mine—I let the roar of my migraine and the heavy pull of fatigue lure me into what I hope is a dreamless sleep.
CHAPTERTHREE
BROOKLYN
My heartbeat.
That’s the first thing I notice—how slow it is.
A heavy throb in my throat, roaring in my ears.
Light flickers in as my lashes flutter, eyelids heavy and coated with shit that makes them hard to open.
Everything hurts—and it all slams into me at once—stealing my breath and scorching my lungs. I shoot up with a hacking cough, throat aflame, and water slipping from the corners of my eyes.
“Jesus fuck,” I rasp as I dry heave, arm curled around my midsection as waves of nausea decide to come barreling forth, too. As if I’m not already feeling enough. I bury my face in my hand, digging the heel of my palm into my eye sockets. Deep—deeper—until the pressure feels like my eyes could burst in an explosion of jellied tissue.
“I was going to ask how you were feeling, but I think I have an idea.” The voice is low, soft. Almost hesitant as he pauses for a moment but assured in his tone. And it slithers right into my brain.
My head flies back, eyes darting around the unfamiliar room until they fall on the man sitting a few feet away. He’s dressed in a cream-colored sweater and dark pants with equally dark socks. He appears put together, but as my eyes rake up his long legs and over his mid-section, his wild, curly hair catches all my attention.
That, and the wire-framed glasses not doing a thing to block the slight discoloration spread across his swollen nose and under eyes.
“What…” My lagging brain takes a few beats to catch up with the previous night—or at least what I can remember of it.
Snow. Somuchsnow. And it was cold. The lights of the city far too bright and the people always so fucking loud. I drank too much—like I always do—and ran away from it all.
From the hotel, from the band. From thatlife.
Then I literally ranintosomeone… who’s sitting right in front of me.
I crack open an eye to take in my surroundings. The walls are white with black trim. It’s a large, open room with the kitchen to the far right and a hallway that leads to… whatever it leads to. The couch below me is soft and gray, and there’s a large black piano dominating the furthest corner of the room. Sleek and poised.
It’s all very monochromatic, and I’m thankful there aren’t any bright colors—I don’t think I could handle it right now. Not with the way my head’s spinning.
“Where am I?” I croak, then make a pathetic attempt to clear my throat—to no avail. The guy—what was his name?—leans forward and grasps the aluminum bottle in front of me. His arm hangs in the air, outstretched, like a peace offering.
