Page 23 of Reckless Roses
I hang up before he can argue with me, and suddenly, I’m running.
I know I’m probably still drunk. I’m overwhelmed and sad, a little scared now that I realize it’s so dark and so late. I’m stupid for taking off on my own. I hate the way Zach treats me like a petulant child, and that my brothers think I can’t take care of myself. They treat me like I’m some emotional, impulsive, reckless girl they can’t get rid of.
I’m running because I don’t want Zach to catch up with me. I don’t want to see him right now. I’m running because I need to get off the street. I’m running because I want the burn in my chest to be from something other than my heartache.
And I don’t run home.
I run right up to the house on Hillside Road with the jacaranda tree in its front yard, to the window on the end with the soft glow illuminating the curtains.
I softly knock, knowing he’s still awake. A moment later, the window opens, and August’s face appears. The burn in my chest recedes, and I don’t know if it’s because I’ve now caught my breath or because I’m looking into the eyes of the one person who never makes me feel bad about who I am.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Tears start falling again, and it’s all I can do to shake my head.
He nods toward his room, beckoning me inside. I brace my arms on the sill and hoist myself through the window. He grabs my waist as he helps me in—his touch always soft and warm. It’s not fire, but embers.
“What happened?”
I shake my head again, looking around. The lamp on his desk is on, his chair pulled out, and his sketchbook open to a rendering of a snake halfway done.
“Is that a tattoo you’re designing for someone?” I ask, changing the subject.
August has been into drawing his entire life, but last year, after watching a documentary about it, he found an interest in designing tattoos. He began doing stick-and-poke work on my brothers and on himself before he found some second-hand equipment online that he now hoards in his garage away from his parents.
Some people at school caught on, and he has this whole underground operation going now. The craziest thing about it is that he’s incredibly talented; you’d never be able to tell the tattoos were done by a fifteen-year-old kid.
“Yeah, for Tyler Childers,” August says.
I nod, turning to face him and attempting to smile, but for some reason, it only makes me cry harder. August pulls me into his arms, cradling my head. He smells like the laundry detergent his mother uses to wash their clothes mixed with his deodorant, which is different from his brother’s. Hugging him feels different, too. It feels like I’m being understood, like he’s telling me he sees me and it’s okay for me to feel this way.
My head fits perfectly into his shoulder. When we met, I was taller than he was, but over the years of our friendship, he has grown to tower above me, and I’m thankful for that now. It makes me feel even safer.
“Can I sleep here tonight?” I murmur against his chest.
“Of course. I can sleep on the couch.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He pulls back, studying my face intently as he looks down at me. Swiping a thumb beneath my eyes to clear my tears, August says quietly, “My brother won’t like that.”
“I don’t care,” I whisper. “You’re my best friend, and you’re the only person who makes me feel safe right now.”
I don’t just mean physically. I mean my soul. There is a bone-deep awareness when I’m with August that I can be exactly who I am and be accepted. He doesn’t treat me like a child, like I’m naïve or immature or fragile. He doesn’t belittle my dreams or my interests; he shares them. He doesn’t make me feel like I have to mask my emotions, no matter how big they may be. It’s my soul that’s safe with him, and I think maybe that’s why I choose him.
My soul longs for Zach, but it’s not safe with him.
I don’t want to think about what that means or how badly it hurts right now. No, I just want to fall asleep blanketed in warmth and security, and that’s right here in August’s bed, with him beside me. We don’t touch, but we never touch that way.
I won’t pretend there aren’t weak moments when I think about how that might feel, because I do, even though I know it’s wrong. But right now, it’s not his touch I need—it’s his presence.
August silently nods, walking over to his dresser and pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt for me to change into. As he hands them to me, he gruffly says, “I’m going to go get you some water and some ibuprofen. You’ll be hungover tomorrow. You can change while I’m doing that.”
“August?” I ask as he quietly opens the door, pausing on the threshold. “Thank you.”For always taking care of me. For accepting me. For being my other half.
He turns around, his gemstone eyes bright with conviction behind his glasses. He smiles softly, and it somehow seems sad. “I’ll do anything for you, Elena.”
He leaves the room, and as I’m changing, I see his phone light up on his desk beside his sketchbook. And because I’m nosy as hell, curious about who would be texting August at two in the morning, I check the notification. It’s his brother’s name flashing across the screen:
