Chapter 5
Ezra
Ipound hard on Conin’s front door. The world shakes, blurred at the edges of my peripheries.
My damp clothes cling to my skin. It continues to pour warm, relentless rain.
I can barely stand upright. I can barely think straight.
God knows I’ve never been able to do that.
Like the masochist that I am, I met with Thax and his stupid friends to get high.
And now I’m at Conin’s doorstep because it’s the only damn place I thought I could go to.
Is he mad at me for being quiet these past several weeks?
Will he turn me away when he realizes that I’m high as a kite?
Conin answers the door, though I hardly register that he’s there in the flesh.
“Ezra?”
Conin Bresshet. The man I love with every fiber of my being.
He’s eighteen now. I can call him a man.
That’s sorta cool. I notice the way his belly fills out the T-shirt he wears, his strong chest, and his muscled arms. The mop of blonde curls that falls onto a faded undercut.
His azure blue eyes. I ogle at him, not caring if he notices. He repeats my name.
Melissa Abernathy materializes at his side. My mood instantly sours. I may or may not have whispered that I didn’t want her here. I don’t know. I’m mad that she is. Why the hell is she here? Were she and Conin—
Conin and Melissa whisper to one another.
This sours my mood even more. I can make out bits and pieces of their hushed conversation, but nothing concrete.
The next second, I’m somehow inside. Melissa is still fucking talking with Conin!
She offers to help, but he says that he has it under control.
Smug, I nod. He’s got it. The two say goodbye to each other.
Melissa sounds concerned. I hate that she does.
And before I know it, I’m in Conin’s bedroom, sitting on the toilet in the attached bathroom. It’s cold. Everything is so cold. The damp clothes continue to soak my body.
“Angle yourself this way, please,” Conin says while nudging me.
His voice sounds admonishing. I can’t help but feel guilty at his tone.
Expertly, Conin ties my hair into a bun.
His tongue pokes out slightly as he wraps and cords the long locks of hair.
I see the subtle quirk on his lips—the smile tilting slowly upwards.
This makes me happy. It makes me so undeniably happy.
I remember when I first showed Conin how to tie it, a year or two ago when my hair had finally become long enough to achieve a bun. This memory is muddled now, but I remember how eager Conin was to learn. My heart could not be tamed through the entire process.
As my traitorous mind does, another thought arises. Melissa.
“What was she doing over here?” these traitorous lips ask.
“We were hanging out, Ez,” he responds.
“You like her, don’t you?” I say. I can’t fucking shut up.
“We’re just friends,” he says back.
I scoff. He clucks his tongue—similar to Ms. Bresshet.
Conin asks me something, and I might’ve said yes, and then I’m being stripped of my clothes.
I’m too much in a daze to do anything about it.
There may be vomit on my hoodie. I feel a tad better when I’m bare of the wet apparel, but I’m suddenly aware of my body, its scars, and Conin .
. . how he can see me. Conin’s seen my scars, but never like this.
Not all of them. Not all at once. The ones on my arms, sure, just not the scars etched into my chest, stomach, back, legs.
Exposed, I start to cry, grateful for Conin’s careful attentiveness through the state I’m in.
“Don’t look at me,” I sob.
“It’s okay,” he says. His voice is soothing. “Let’s get you into new clothes.”
In the blink of an eye, I’m lying atop Conin’s bed. I’m clothed and under the sheets. They’re warm and inviting. They smell of him, of Conin, of the man that I love. In heavy droves, the numbness of sleep washes over me. I succumb to its bliss.