Page 56 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
I’m a writhing ball of pent-up, white-hot, whirlwind emotions. Every nerve is stretched taut. Every time a car passes by on the street outside, I tense, holding my breath. Every little sound is amplified, until a fly buzzing against the windowpane sounds like a jackhammer. I don’t know how much longer I can lie here like this before I suffer a serious mental break, start screaming, and never stop.
Then I hear the front door open, and freeze.
The door softly closes. After a moment’s pause, heavy footsteps start down the hall. My frozen blood thaws, and begins to boil. I’m roasting from the inside out.
When A.J. reaches my open bedroom door, he stands just outside, peering in. There are no lights on in the apartment, but my eyes have adjusted to the dark, so I see how his eyes glitter. I see how brightly they burn.
Heart thundering, I sit up. The sheets puddle around my waist. I’m wearing no makeup and my usual bedtime outfit, boy shorts and a T-shirt, because the thought of waiting all dolled up in a nightie and being stood up was too much to bear.
But now he’s here. I have no idea what lies on the other side of this moment.
And I. Don’t. Care.
Without saying a word, I pull back the sheets on the other side of the bed. A.J. doesn’t hesitate a fraction of a second. He crosses the threshold, pulls the hoodie off over his head, drops it to the floor, shucks off his boots, and crawls into bed next to me.
As his arms come around me and his knees draw up behind mine, I release a breath so relieved it’s almost painful.
We lie together for a while in total silence. His breath is warm on the back of my neck. Against my shoulder blades, his heart beats fast and hard.
Into the soft darkness, I say, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.”
“I am. Because I know this isn’t easy for you.”
He presses his feverish forehead to my neck. “How do you see me so clearly, when no one else can?”
I think about it. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just looking closer than they are.”
I hear him swallow. His thumb moves back and forth over my wrist. With a fingertip, I trace the flower tattoo on his knuckle. There are several more on his other knuckles, but this is the one I find most fascinating. “What does this tattoo mean? The flower one with the initials inside the petals.”
The question is a risk, because I know how he hates questions. I’m not sure he’ll answer. But finally he does, his voice thick. “It’s a reminder.”
“Of?”
“Everyone I’ve lost.”
My finger stills. I count the petals.
Twelve.
I sit with it, resisting the urge to ask a rapid-fire succession of follow-up questions. He’s lost twelve people. I assume by “lost” he means died, although without asking I have no way to prove that. I know the mysterious Aleksandra, resident of the Preobrazhenskoe Cemetery in Saint Petersburg, is one of the lost. His parents are, too. I remember from Wikipedia that they died years past. But who are the other nine? He didn’t have siblings. Could they be other relatives? Friends?
In the end I decide it doesn’t matter. A.J. has a dozen dead people in his past. I’ve never known anyone who’s died. Not one. Even my two dead grandparents died before I was born.
I try to imagine my parents being dead, and can’t. We don’t always get along, but I love them. And I know they love me. Their absence would leave such a void I can’t imagine it ever being filled. And if Kat or Grace died, I’d be devastated.
An unexpected feeling of tenderness wells up inside me. It’s a warm, achy softness in the center of my chest, and it’s all for the man in whose arms I lie.
I lower my head and gently press my lips against the flower tattoo.
Behind me, A.J.’s chest heaves as he gulps several deep breaths. His arms tighten around my body. He lifts the arm that’s under my head and wraps it around my chest, so I’m cocooned in a pair of big, strong arms. I press the soles of my bare feet against the tops of his, and close my eyes.
Like an onion, layer by layer, my heart peels slowly open.
“When I was growing up, I was always the tallest one in class. Taller than all the boys. Tall and skinny, so I used to get teased. They’d call me giraffe or beanpole or skeletor. My brother always stuck up for me, even though sometimes he’d get his ass kicked because he was pretty skinny, too. My mother would call the kids’ parents and scream. And my father would call the principal and threaten to sue the entire school district. It wasn’t really that big of a deal to me. I mean, it hurt, but I knew I’d eventually grow into my legs. That’s what Granny Harris would always tell me when she saw me.”
I mimic a posh British accent. “‘When you grow into those legs, luv, you’ll be the most gorgeous creature that ever walked the earth. You’re just going through the same awkward stage everyone goes through. But I know a thoroughbred when I see one!’ She was always saying nice things to me like that. My entire family always had my back. My whole life, I’ve always felt protected.”
