Page 65 of Impossible

Unlike my defensive urge when Cecilia complimented the nest, Leon’s words set a fire in my low belly. A bubbling sensation rises in my chest and I realize; it must be my purr. I clamp down, refusing to allow the sound out. It feels like breathing through frothed milk.

“Those are my things,” I point out my toiletries for him to grab, desperate to change the subject. He obliges. I can’t believe I forgot about the nest when he came in.

He waits while I clean up. I’m exhausted, but my body is humming with him just outside the door. I call out when I’m finished and he enters and stands behind me, looking at our reflection.

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?” he asks. It’s an innocent enough question, but he notices my breath catch. “I’m sorry,” he falters. “I shouldn’t have asked that.”

But I’m looking with new eyes now. I wonder whathesees.

He towers over me, a blonde god and a wilted waif. I know he’s nearly six years older than me, but in the harsh lighting of the bathroom, I look older than him, aged beyond my years. My skin is sallow and my features pinched. I have sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. Sitting in front of Leon, for maybe the first time ever, I wish that I weighed more. That I glowed, at least enough to be worthy of a place next to him. It’s a disconcerting feeling, so starkly in opposition to how I usually feel.

“I look like shit, don’t I?” I smile, but it’s flimsy.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to agree with that,” he hesitates.

“It’s ok,” I chuckle. “I’m not saying I’m fat.”

“Did you really ever look in the mirror and think you were fat?”

“I was.”

He shakes his head slowly. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then thinks better of it. I watch him chew on the inside of his cheek, brow furrowed. Then, he blurts: “I don’t know if it’s bad to tell you I think you’re beautiful.”

The air is sucked from the room. We lock eyes in the mirror. It’s a quiet moment. It feels like it matters.

I look away first.

He wheels me back without saying anything more. He notices me squint when we enter my room and flicks the light off. The moon is almost full, visible in the sliver of sky between the tops of the trees and the frame of the window. He maneuvers me to the foot of the bed by its light, and then looks at me questioningly, silently asking if I need help. I nod.

He cradles me gently and lifts in what is quickly becoming a routine gesture. I bury my face in his neck. I know now that this is where his scent glands are. That by doing this, I’m assaulting him with my black tea and bergamot. But all I can think about is what he’s doing to me—cloves, like spiced cider, melting me like warm butter.He thinks you’re beautiful.

He sets me in my nest, but I don’t let go of his neck. I know I should, I know,I know.I justneedhim. A little longer.

“Indie,” he rasps.

I let my hands trail from behind his head to rest on his cheeks. I hold his face over mine, knowing he has to be bent and uncomfortable. Not caring.

I will him to know what I’m asking for. I can’t do it myself, I just can’t.

His expression is pained, his green eyes burning. He leans forward and for a moment I think he’ll close the space between us. His hand cradles my face. His thumb brushes my lips, parted, waiting for him. A feather’s touch. He presses his forehead to mine. Our breaths mix. My body turns to jelly.

“Leon,” I breathe. I feel pathetic, my need for him overriding every instinct of self-preservation I thought I had bolstered in anticipation of my hormones betraying me.

His hand comes to rest over mine, still cupping his cheek. He pulls away. The air is cold without his breath to warm it.

“Rest up, Indie. I’ll see you tomorrow, ok?”

“Tomorrow?” I repeat, struck dumb. All I can think about is him, his lips, his body, big and solid against mine. Safe.

“For lunch. I’ll be waiting, so don’t stand me up, ok?”

I nod, watching him turn and go.

How am I supposed to face him after this?

Indie the Imbecile.

19

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