Page 77 of Let It Snow
I want to ask what he means, but I don’t feel strong enough to push further. Forcing my energy to flow harder during this whole conversation is taking its toll. My head is bloated, and the world around me feels heavy, folding in on itself. Away from Snow and his calming touch, everything turns hazy, rough, painful.
Why? Why did that damn Theo have to show up and ruin it all? Knocked up, really?
Bay continues,
"Imagine living constantly in negative energy. Imagine being cracked open inside. Is that you?" He exhales another stream of smoke into the air. The air is already quite heavy with it.
I nod eagerly, but he only scoffs.
"I doubt it. I think you’ve got a different issue, one that can be healed if you open yourself up to it."
I can’t shake the feeling he’s talking about himself, that the broken one he’s describing is actually him. I study his impassive face, not sure what to say.
On impulse, I type on his phone screen:
"You’re supposed to be famous. I’ll admit I don’t know much about you, but why are you still living here in this tiny house onyour parents’ lot? Don’t you have a boyfriend? I’m sure there’s a line of fans waiting to date you."
He lets out a sharp, bitter sound, almost a laugh but not quite.
"For such a shy, quiet guy, you sure are nosy."
But he doesn’t give me an answer.
Caught in a rare wave of curiosity, I push further and type:
"Is there a basement under the floor? It looked like you were training or something."
He shrugs.
"You could call it that. You could call it a," he raises his hands in the air and makes quotation marks, "basement." He lets out another dry little laugh.
Whatever that means.
My gaze drifts over his black athletic shirt, the way the thick muscles shift beneath the fabric. He clearly pushes himself hard in training.
What surprises me is that even though he’s objectively very attractive, I feel no pull toward him, not even the faintest spark of sexual interest. On the contrary, it’s like there’s some wall around him, an energetic barrier that blocks any flow of energy and leaves no opening for flirting. He carries a kind of vacuum inside him, a cold, hollow chill. The longer I look at him, the stronger the impression feels, as if a dull monochrome filter is layered over him. The only thing that stands out is his dark red hair, an uncommon shade of blood-deep crimson.
He turns his head and looks at me, his eyes nearly black, such a dark green they’re like bottomless pits.
"I don’t think you should rush into anything, Summer. You’re family now. You can stay here and just live however you want. Do you have any hobbies, anything you’re passionate about, something you’d like to do?" His tone sounds light, but everything about it feels practiced, fake.
I shrug faintly and type on his phone:
"I have partial amnesia. I don’t really remember what I liked when I was a kid, except aquariums. If I focus really hard, I think maybe I was into storytelling. Possibly I even wrote short stories online, but I can’t remember my login or what they were about."
"Well, you can always waste hours scrolling through shorts online," he says with a sour smile. "Or you could learn to play an instrument. Snow gives lessons. He could teach you."
I quickly shake my head. The thought of knowing how to play isn’t unpleasant in itself, but I’m definitely not ready for it with Snow, not in a situation like this.
Bay laughs, though his laugh doesn’t sound like normal laughter. It’s the kind of sound someone makes when they’re hurting but trying to cover it up with irony.
In a way, I understand, because I’m in a similar state whenever I’m not touching Snow. My whole body, my mind, every thought is wrapped in an unpleasant ache. Does Bay wrestle with something like that too?
He watches me with a crooked smirk.
"Then I guess it’s shorts for you. Not the most productive way to spend your time. I prefer playing."
He nods toward the electric guitar hanging on the wall across from us.
