Page 41 of Pieces Of You

“And I’ll pay you back.”

“Okay,” I repeat.

Back at her house, she walks through the darkness, down the hallway, and into her bedroom, and I follow because… to be honest, I’m still sporting that half-chub, and her dress is still damp, clinging to parts of her I’ve thought about way too much since she kissed me, and I kissed her back.

She uses her phone as a source of light while she goes through her drawers, and I take a moment to look around the room, using my phone for light. Like the furniture out in the living room, the bed is white, wrought iron with brass toppers on the corners. It’s so lush and fancy and seems so out of place; it makes me question who shereallyis. If you take away the reality of her situation, is this the kind of stuff she’d like to surround herself with? The sheets, too, are white, and I sit on the edge of the bed, run my hands across the soft material. There’s a small dresser with a mirror—guess what color—and on the dresser is the only thing in the room that isn’t white. It’s a small box, most likely for jewelry, made of dark wood, with a carving of a single flower. A dahlia if I’m not mistaken.

She drops her clothes on the bed beside me, the black garments a complete contrast toeverythingelse. “I have to get dressed,” she states, standing in front of me.

“Who’s stopping you?” I challenge, but she’s clearly not in the mood. I sigh, thinking about my next words for all of a millisecond. “I’m about to do something insanely creepy here, and I’m going to need you to let me. And in return, I’ll let you hold it against me for the rest of my life.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “The rest of your life?”

I nod, then settle my hands behind her thighs, bringing her between my legs.

“Holden,” she warns.

“Relax, Jamie,” I mumble, eyes on hers as I bring my hand to the front of her leg, just under her dress. “If I was going to finger fuck you or taste between your legs, I’d have done it at the pool.”

“You’re so crass,” she states, but there’s not even a hint of disgust in her tone.

“Yeah, and you’re not the slightest bit mad about it, are you?” I lift her dress, slowly, so slowly, loving the way her muscles tense beneath my touch, the way her breaths become short, ragged. Her forearms land on my shoulders, and I dip my head forward, just under her breasts, and I breathe her in:sunshine and solace.

“Creep,” she whispers, and she has no idea.

I grab my phone, open the camera app, and take a picture of her thigh, of her art. Of her masterpiece. She’s drawn the profile of a girl’s face, a girl so similar to herself. Large flowers with matching leaves cover the back part of her head, where her hair should be, both in front and behind the figure, and it’s… “It’s beautiful, Jamie.” I pull back, release her completely, and try to maintain some form of composure. I don’t know what it is about this girl and her art that has me so drawn to them both. I clear my throat, push aside all those thoughts. “You’re taking art, right?”

“Yes,” she says, stepping back. She stares down at her hands—such dainty, gifted little things.

“Is that what you plan on doing? Like at college, or career-wise?”

Shifting from one foot to the other, her words are quiet when she says, “Not really. I draw as an escape and sometimes as a necessity.” Her nose scrunches, shifting the freckles on her cheeks. “But it’s not really a passion or something I want to do for the rest of my life. Besides, I don’t know if I’m good enough.”

“Jamie.” I make sure her eyes are on mine when I tell her, “If you never believe a single word I speak ever again, believe me when I tell you that youaregood enough.” She stares at me with blank confusion. “I mean it,” I say, getting animated. “I’ve never once looked at a piece of art and feltanything… and when you do it, it’s like… like…” How the fuck do I even describe what it’s like to need to rush home from school just so I can open my desk drawer and peek at her work? “It’s like feeling everything all at once…”

… And then nothing at all.

20

Jamie

“Do me a favor?”Zeke calls out, standing in front of the grill gripping a spatula.

“I already got it!” I reply, closing the trash bag and collecting the two that are already there.

“See you tomorrow?”

Like I’d be anywhere else. “Of course.”

The moment I step out of the diner, I’m blinded by headlights aimed directly at the door. I block it by raising the bags in my hands and keep walking toward the dumpster. “Jamie!”

I instantly recognize the voice because it’s one I’ve spent the past six hours replaying in my head. I lower the bags, and Holden comes into view, dropping from the hood of his truck. “You stalking me now?”

“Only in your fantasies, Taylor,” he says, slowly approaching me.

“How long have you been waiting here?” In a way, I’d expected him to be here. I’d spent my entire shift thinking about all the ways I’d tell him how I feel about him trying to fix my problems. I put it all down to words and organized those words in an order that would make sense. In my head, I went through this entire conversation numerous times, and now that he’s here, standing right in front of me, I can’t seem to find a single one to say to him. “I’m scared” wouldn’t work because then I’d have to explain that fear. And while my fear is simple, the reasons behind it are not. I never want to get to a point in my life where I have to rely on someone to fix me. Tosaveme. My mom gave Beaker that power, and in return, he abused that power as much as he abused her, physically and emotionally.

“Like, five minutes. I called the diner. Zeke told me what time you finish. Nice guy.” He takes a breath. “And I’m picking you up,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He takes the bags from me and throws them in the dumpster, then just stands there with a goofy grin splitting his face in two. “And then I’m taking you back to my place.”

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