Page 26 of Touch Me

Maybe. Probably.

It doesn’t change the chain reaction, though. One minute you’re embarrassed you have old, worn-out shoes, and the next minute, you’re slightly relieved. Soon that feeling fades to the shame and anxiety someone may recognize the shoes and know they aren’t yours.

So, no... I didn’t need to be strong. I needed to be taken care of. I needed to be safe. But maybe they’re right. Maybe I am better for it—stronger. That’s not to say I wouldn’t have appreciated an easier childhood, but that’s not what I got. I had to swallow my pride and brush off the pity if it meant I got a new-to-me pair of shoes. I had to find the value in the little things or the big things would’ve swallowed me whole.

Like when Jess would say she no longer liked some of her clothes, even though I knew she was lying. She would give me a whole bag full, and I would walk into school with my head held a little higher the next day. I soon forgot to be anxious about the little things. I also loved Jess a little more each time. Maybe she pitied me, or maybe she just cared about me. The end result was the same.

And now I have to make the best of what I have yet again. Probably won’t be the last time, either.

* * *

My laptop bagthunks to the floor as I drop it off in my room. Grabbing some clean clothes, I head for the shower, sans Shaky this time. I need to wash this day away. Wash away my pathetic reverie walking home—imagining all the inconsequential negative thoughts washing down the drain with the suds as I make myself clean.

All the memories of hunger and loneliness, gone. All the feelings of inferiority, washed away. All the indifference from my mother, the one who is supposed to love me the most, lay her life down for mine, whisked away with the bubbles.

I thought I was over those feelings of neglect—I’m an adult. I don’t need anyone anymore. I got through life just fine on my own when I needed someone, so I damn sure can do it again now. On the other hand, I don’t have anyone holding me back. My path is my own.

Resigned and dried, I dress quickly and throw my hair into a bun. Jace is nowhere in sight when I make my way through the house. Music blasts from upstairs, though, so he must be in the gym. Taking advantage of being alone, I peruse the space trying to pick out little bits that might be inherently Jace.

I wander over to his desk, my heartbeat racketing against my ribs at the thought of getting caught invading his privacy. I know next to nothing about him. Which is strange, considering I’ve known him for over half of my life. Even when we were younger, he gave me nothing. No little snippets or glimpses as to who he is or what he wants out of life. Photography is the only clue I have, and he shut that shit down right away—

Are these doodles?

Jesus, even his mindless strokes with a pen are art. Geometric shapes, all interconnecting, line the entire page with precision and symmetry. In the middle, each day of the month has a different doodle. Cute little faces, dogs with hair hanging in their eyes, trees, planets, birds, flowers, balloons, boats, all perfectly centered in each little box.

I studied art for the past four years. I long for some creative artistic talent—hell, I would take balloon animals at this point. And he can sit here and doodle this without even trying, only to toss them in the garbage when he’s done. It’s a shame he hides his talent from the world. What a waste.

His desk is a drafting table so there are no drawers to rifle through. A pen. That's fucking it. Nothing personal or telling. Nothing that makes me sayNawww.

The music cuts off upstairs, and my stomach drops like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Hurdling over the couch in a tuck and roll somersault, I snatch the remote and a blanket just in time to see Jace descend the stairs. I may not have any artistic talent, but I could totally be a ninja.

I fucking nailed that roll.

Stopping abruptly when he sees me, he focuses his eyes over my head, and says, “Oh, hey.”

Sweat breaks out on my back, either from that kickass ninja roll or nearly getting caught snooping through his things.

Trying to control my breathing, I take even breaths, and my eyes never leave the screen. “Hey.”

If he wants to dismiss me, fine. We can both be aloof assholes if that’s how he wants to play it. Looks like some bitterness survived my shower.

Oops.

“What are you watching?” he asks, looking at the screen as well. Probably so he doesn’t have to look at me.

“The new season of that ‘80s sci-fi show on Netflix just released. Have you seen it?”

Way to be aloof.

Needy bitch.

“No, I haven’t.” He turns fully toward me, and when my eyes leave the screen, they are met with his icy blue gaze, so intent on my face, goosebumps ripple out in waves. “I’ve watched the other ones, though.”

“You want to watch it with me? I’m done working for the day and was just going to veg out with a couple of episodes.”

“Uh, yeah.” He gestures his thumb over his shoulder, toward his bedroom. “Is it okay if I grab a quick shower?”

“Sure, I’ll wait. I’ll just whip up a snack.”

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