Chapter 12
Four Weeks Later…
He’s not bluffing.
I wish he were, but he isn’t.
This blackmail is very, very real.
So my only recourse is the truth. My only recourse is taking matters into my own hands and telling Shepard the whole truth when he comes back. So he doesn’t have any leverage over me.
So he doesn’t get to tear me apart from my boyfriend.
I know nothing is final yet, but he still feels like my boyfriend.
Especially when he asks me about my day. When he listens to all my costume woes and lighting disasters. He listens to me about my classes and how I wish I could be outside, soaking the snow in, instead of being cooped up inside, learning about things I don’t really care about. He listens to me about my biji, how much I love her, how I wish I could live with her. Not that he didn’t before, but before, for some very strange reason, we didn’t have the intimacy we have now.
He didn’t feel like… mine.
Maybe all I needed was to let myself open up to him and now that I have, he feels like someone I could share anything and everything with.
Not to mention, it definitely feels like he’s my boyfriend when he helps me with my assignments. Although we’ve had to make some adjustments there. That history assignment he did for me got me an A, which was a huge surprise for me because I had no idea Shepard was so into history, and also for my professor. Who’s never known me to be that hardworking. So when next time he offered to do my homework so I could focus on my upcoming play, I told him not to be so good about it. Which I don’t think he took very well.
Shepard
Why the fuck not?
Isadora
Because! You did so well the last time, my professor got suspicious. ??????
Shepard
He got suspicious because you got an A?
Isadora
Yes! Because I never get As. I’m mostly a straight C student, okay, and you know that!
Shepard
Well you’re turning your life around now.
You’re going to be a straight A student if I have something to say about it.
Isadora
No, I’m not and I don’t want to be. All I want is to just fly under the radar and be able to do my play.
Because if my mom finds out that something is wrong, she could take me away. She already does her surprise drop-ins to check on me. I don’t want her getting suspicious when I’m this close to FINALLY performing on stage.
His answer came back a few seconds later and even though it was succinct, I could feel his struggle through the screen.
Shepard
Fine.
Isadora
Fine what?
Shepard
I’ll hold my genius and get you a C.
Isadora
You know, you don’t have to. You work all day and then you have games at night. I can handle it myself.
Shepard
Just send me the details.
So I did.
So I do.
Whenever I have assignments and things to do for class, I ask for his help. Because he’s not only my boyfriend but he’s the best boyfriend in the world. And while I’m very, very happy about that, I’m also very, very guilty.
Because a best boyfriend deserves the best girlfriend.
I do try to be that—that was always the plan to begin with—but I don’t think I’m succeeding all that much.
Especially when I think about him.
The Cold Thorn who feels like wildfire.
He forces me to think about him because every night, he asks me to send him my pictures. And it would be okay if they were all dirty photos—no, seriously, it would be okay if he asked me to expose myself to him on a nightly basis—because then I could put a label on it all and call him a pervy asshole and move on.
But he doesn’t.
He asks to see the most innocuous things.
My panties wet from my juices after dancing for his twin brother; yes, I dance for Shepard still. Sometimes he asks to see my wet fingers in addition to my wet panties. He doesn’t let me put my fingers inside me, though, no. That was his demand the first night he asked me to show him my fingers. He specifically told me not to put my fingers inside and when I asked him why, he said that it’s his first right to enter my body. And that made me so mad, his arrogance, his dominance, his fucking entitlement that I couldn’t help taunting him.
“But something’s already been inside me,” I told him.
“What?” he bit out.
“Tampons.”
“Tampons,” he parroted in a flat tone.
“Yup.” I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “So sorry, asshole, someone or something got to my pussy first.”
I heard his breaths for a few seconds.
“And you should thank your lucky stars that my dick can’t do the job of a tampon or you’d walk around with me in your bleeding pussy twenty-four seven for a whole week, on a monthly basis.”
I had to clench my thighs at that.
I also had to tell him, “That has to be, has to be, the craziest thing anyone has ever said to me. Or to anyone, for that matter. You know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So you know you’re insane,” I went on.
“I wasn’t, though. Not until you decided to barge into my life like a fucking highway crash.”
My mouth fell open. “Are you comparing me to a deadly road accident?”
“Actually, you’re more akin to a plane crash.”
I gasped. “What?”
“Because instead of barging, you flew into my life wearing a white dress and fake wings.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t need to love me to let me fuck you.”
“I’m not fucking you, okay?” I told him firmly. “I’m so not fucking you.”
“Well, then it’s your boyfriend who’s going to pay the price for it, isn’t he?” he threatened. “Either way, someone’s getting fucked before the home game.”
I wanted to call him an asshole again.
I wanted to say that I hated him.
But I’ve already said all those things a million times. So I decided to seethe in silence. I also decided to think that it’s almost… flattering.
In a way.
If you really think about it.
The way he’s obsessed with me. With having me. With ruining me.
With using me and possessing me.
The way I drive him crazy.
So much so that along with the photos of my panties and wet fingers, he also asks me for pictures of the nape of my neck; the underside of my elbows. The webbing of my toes; the hem of my dress grazing my upper thighs. My chipped nail polish; the apple of my cheeks. My two dimples and that mole on my back. One night, he asked me to show him my belly button. Another night, he wanted to see my dark hair strewn about on my white pillows. It’s like he’s trying to make a collage of me. Catalog details about me that no one has ever bothered to. I didn’t even bother to.
It makes my heart race more than I want to admit.
In any case, this will all be over soon, and if I’m looking at the clock on my nightstand right, it should happen in two days. In two days, Shepard is coming back for the home game and I’m telling him everything. To say that I’m nervous and that I want to hide away from the world is an understatement.
Not to mention, my debut’s happening tomorrow, the night before Shepard’s due back, and my heart isn’t exactly in it. Plus, I’m struggling with a couple of scenes and I just want to back out of everything.
Picking up my phone, I decide to text Shepard.
Isadora
Hey, I know this isn’t our usual time to talk and you must be busy with practice and stuff. But I wanted to text you anyway because I… I’m nervous. About the play. About a couple of scenes and I wish… I just wish you were here. That you could see my play. You’d be the only one I’d know in the audience. Since you know my biji isn’t coming.
Anyway I’m going to go practice now. Have fun out with the boys and text me when you get back!
Sighing sadly, I pick up the stapled, well-worn copy of the script, ready to run lines, when the phone I hadn’t even put down on the bed starts to ring. It’s a video call and before I’ve had a chance to think about it, I hit accept.
And I realize that I made a mistake.
I should have thought about it.
I should have waited to think about it.
Because of who is on my screen.
“Stellan,” I whisper, the phone in my hand trembling.
Something moves over his face.
His beautiful, beautiful face.
The face I haven’t seen since the charity event.
Well, I mean, I have seen it. On TV. In passing, during the games.
But not like this.
Not where I could take my time and as always, you have to take your time when staring at him. You have to give him your full attention or you could miss out on details. You could miss out on all the sharp turns and harsh terrains of his features. You could fail to notice the exact way his thick eyelashes curl or the way his dark eyes glint. You could definitely pass by on how his rose of a mouth pouts and curves at the ends.
And holy God, if I wasn’t taking my time right now, I totally would’ve missed out on seeing his usually clean-shaven jaw all stubbly and gruff. Not to mention that hair. That’s always neatly combed and pushed back, grazing his broad forehead.
Is that what he looks like at the end of the day?
In the privacy of his room?
Is that what happens to his shirt, a white button-down? Does it get wrinkled with the top three buttons open? Showing the sliver of his massive chest.
He looks like a fever dream.
A dream made of snow and thorns and pink magnolias and cigarette smoke.
“Say it again,” he commands.
I blink. “What?”
“My name,” he rasps, his eyes glinting. “Say it.”
I want to ask why. Or at least I should. That would be the prudent thing to do. But the look on that beautiful face of his makes me obey him without question.
“Stellan.”
His chest moves with a breath, that tanned skin drawing my eyes toward it once again, as he says in a raspy voice, “Yeah, that’s my name.”
Looking up, I comment on his strange tone, “Did you, uh, think that I…”
“You what?”
“Did you think that I wouldn’t”—I lick my lips, wondering if mentioning this is a good idea—“know you were… you and not… him?”
His eyes flick back and forth between mine. “No, I knew that you’d know.”
“Even if I didn’t,” I go on, “there’s a thing called caller ID.”
“There is.”
“I have you saved as Asshole.”
I don’t.
I never got around to it for some reason.
He’s still my Wildfire Thorn.
His lips twitch. “Even if you hadn’t saved me as Asshole, you’d still know.”
I wish I could deny it.
But I don’t have secrets from him, unfortunately, like I have from the rest of the world. Which is kinda ironic that he knows me more than my own boyfriend does, but it is what it is.
I sigh. “Why are you calling me?”
He studies me for a few seconds. “Because you need my help.”
“What?”
“You have your play tomorrow,” he informs me like I don’t know. “And from what I’ve gathered, you’re nervous.”
I stare at the screen for a couple of seconds. “How do you… How do you know?”
“Because I got your text.”
“You got my text?”
“I have his phone,” he explains simply.
“You have his phone.”
“Actually, I’ve had his phone for the past few weeks,” he explains again and this time even more simply.
“You have…”
“Which is how I know that you’ve been practicing for your big debut for the last couple of months,” he keeps going, his face blank and his expression cool. “And you’ve got the lead role. I also know you’re helping with the costumes, the stage design. You’ve had a hand in the script writing too. And all of this is because your department hasn’t had a lot of interest or funding. There’s one faculty, hardly any students. If it weren’t for your and your classmates’ efforts, they’d shut down the department.”
All throughout his talking, his tone has been calm. His tone didn’t have a tone.
But my heart was slowly speeding up in my chest. My blood was slowly speeding up in my veins too. To the point where now my heartbeats are deafening, and my blood is roaring. My skin is so hot in the middle of my chilly room that I’m sweating.
Still when I speak, I do it without screaming. “If… If you have had his phone for the past several weeks, then… H-how is it that I’ve been talking to him?”
His gaze is steady, unhurried and calm. “You haven’t been.”
“I… I’m sorry?”
“It was me.” Then he repeats it in case I didn’t get it the first time, “It has been me.”
And he’s right because I don’t get it.
Not at first.
Not even after five beats of silence.
On the sixth beat, though, I say, “Y-you.”
“Yes.”
“So you’ve been…” I stop to take a breath; it’s like I’m having to consciously remind myself to breathe. “You’ve been pretending to be him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I… I couldn’t not,” he says, looking into my eyes. “Because when I found his phone, I had every intention of giving it back, but then I saw your name flashing on the screen and it was like… a switch flipped. Something happened. Something I don’t know how to explain. Something rearranged itself inside me. And I…”
“And you what?” I ask, looking back into his eyes.
“And after a year of stopping myself, keeping myself in check, keeping myself contained, I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop myself from bursting out. From reaching back out,” he says after a few seconds of pondering. As if he’s coming to this conclusion himself right now. “From getting to touch you somehow. From getting to know you. Even from hundreds of miles away. Even through a screen and under the guise of him.”
I keep staring at him for a few seconds more.
I keep staring and staring.
I study his fever dream of a face and that messy dark hair. I study the jut of his Adam’s apple and the veins on his throat. The peek of his collarbone. I study how unaffected he appears, how calm while confessing his secrets. Recounting his crimes.
I believe him.
I believe him except...
When I’m done, I go back to his eyes and try to sound just as unaffected as him. “You couldn’t stop yourself from getting to know me.”
His eyes rove over my face before he replies, “No.”
“Me,” I emphasize because I don’t want there to be any confusion.
“You,” he confirms.
“So…” I take a deep breath. “Does that mean you care about me?”
That gives him pause. “I… I’m…”
He can’t say it, can he?
That liar.
That fucking asshole.
That stupid fucking asshole who thinks I’m stupid.
I’m the stupidest, most foolish girl he’s ever met.
Who will believe everything he just said.
Because I want this to be true so badly, don’t I? I want this twisted thing to be true so fucking badly that he’s mocking me. He’s being condescending to me like he always is.
“About the girl who’s tortured you for over a year,” I begin.
“That’s—”
“The girl you don’t even like. You called me a virus,” I continue.
His jaw tenses. “You?—”
“You also called me a plane crash,” I cut him off, my voice rising.
His jaw tenses further. “I?—”
“Oh, and on top of all that, you’re blackmailing me. All because you could get one night from me. Just one night. Where you could fuck me and leave me as sloppy seconds for your twin brother. That’s not getting to know me, Stellan. That’s the opposite of getting to know me. That’s saying that you don’t respect me enough to get to know me. You don’t care about me enough to get to know me. That’s saying that all I’m good for is spreading my legs for you and?—”
His nostrils flare. “Maybe you should be happy about all this. About the phone, about the blackmail, about me breaking all the fucking rules for you. You wanted to be my Lolita, didn’t you? Well, there you fucking go. And besides, I never said that’s all you’re good enough for. I?—”
“You didn’t have to,” I snap—no, actually, I scream because see? He is mocking me. “What you’re doing says everything, isn’t it? What you’re doing says that all you care about is yourself. What you’re doing is saying that you’re a selfish fucking asshole who will not only get his hands on Shep’s phone and read our messages, our private correspondence, but you will lie about it. You will make a mockery of it. You will violate our privacy and you will sit there and you will fucking lie about it. You will sit there and you will insult this awful situation even further. What it says to me, Stellan, is that you’re dangerous. You’re dangerous to my happiness. You’re a danger to my heart. To my happily ever after. You’re fucking dangerous,” I breathe out sharply. “You must think I’m sooooo stupid, don’t you? You must think I have no sense in my body. You know what, I’m not talking to you. I’m done talking to you. This is over. This bullshit is?—”
“You don’t need to talk to me,” he finally bites out, putting an end to my tirade.
And I realize that… he looks stricken somehow.
He looks taken aback. Shocked, surprised.
And I don’t know what it was that I said that’s making him look that way. All harsh and white.
Harsh as ice. White as snow.
“S-Stellan,” I whisper.
It’s as if he wakes up, his eyes blinking. “But you still need my help.”
I want to ask him about it.
I want to ask him about what just happened. Why he looked like that. What did I say? I mean, I said a lot of things, but what exactly was it that made him look like he’s seeing a ghost?
But I don’t.
I won’t.
It’s none of my business. Not after what he pulled.
“I do not, in any way, shape, or form, need your help,” I deny.
“You texted that you’re nervous.”
“And the fact that you read it makes you an absolute asshole.”
“I—”
“No, it makes you a devil,” I speak over him. “That’s what you are. You’re a devil.”
Tightness ripples on his face. “And if you refuse my help, then you’d be as stupid as you just called yourself.”
I’m gripping the phone so tightly that I should be worried I’ll break it.
I’ll smash it into pieces with my bare hands.
But that’s okay.
Because I want that. I want to smash it and crush it.
I want to climb inside it and smack his pretty fucking face. Because yes, I am stupid. And for a second or two back there, I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that he really got his hands on Shepard’s phone and it’s him I’ve been talking to for the past weeks. That it’s him I’ve been dancing for.
All because he really wanted to get to know me.
He did it for me.
To chase after me.
To woo me.
He did not. He’s lying.
Because if he really wanted me, if he really cared about me even a little bit, he wouldn’t be blackmailing me. He wouldn’t be playing with my emotions. He wouldn’t be pretending and shame on me for even entertaining the thought that somehow all of his is flattering instead of what it actually is.
Despicable and disgusting.
“Fine.” I clench my teeth. “I’m stupid then. Are you happy now? I’m?—”
“Look”—he clenches his teeth too and I hate myself for thinking how sharp that turns his already killer jawline—“this is your debut. This is your fucking dream, isn’t it? This is the reason why you were sneaking out that night, the night I met you. This is your destiny. So then fucking seize it. You’re nervous; I can help. Let me help. You can go back to hating me when I’m done running lines with you. So stop wasting both our time and send me your script so we can start.”
I don’t.
I choose to once again stare at him for a few moments.
Then, in a voice that’s much lower than before, “You want to run lines with me?”
His chest moves again with a breath. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do in rehearsals?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“So then that’s what we’re doing.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to”—I swallow—“help me?”
It’s his turn to study me for a few moments. Not that he wasn’t already doing that but still. He takes pause to do it now. He takes pause to flick his gaze over my face, from the top of my messy bun down to my stubborn chin. He also takes in my sleep T-shirt. A loose boyfriend T-shirt with Minnie Mouse on it that I got at a thrift store and that I wear when I mean business. Business as in when I’m trying to practice in front of the mirror and not sit around and… well, think of this cold and cruel asshole.
When he’s done looking for whatever it is he was looking for on my face, he replies, “Because I can.”
Then something occurs to me and words are out of my mouth before I’ve thought it through. “Is it because you think that’ll get me to sleep with you?” I sit up straight. “Is that why you’re being nice because you think I’ll give in and?—”
“I don’t need to be nice to get you to sleep with me,” he says, his features hard. “You’ll sleep with me anyway. In fact, you’ll beg to sleep with me, and you’ll sleep with me so many fucking times that you won’t get a wink of sleep that night.”
“Oh, is that so?” I roll my eyes. “Is that why you’re blackmailing me because you think I’m just begging to sleep with you?”
“Me blackmailing you is me doing you a favor.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he doesn’t let me.
“It’s me giving you a lie to hold onto. So the next day when you wake up after all the sleeping you’ve done, you can pretend and say you didn’t like it. You can pretend that you didn’t want it. You can tell yourself that you were forced into and that you didn’t beg me to let you sleep with me one more time. You’re a pretty fucking liar, aren’t you? So I’m just speaking your language. Are there any more questions and objections you have before we begin?”
“Yes,” I say. “I do actually.”
“Dazzle me.”
“If anyone should help me, it should be him. He’s my boyfriend, not you,” I point out.
“Well, your boyfriend”—his jaw is as hard as his tone—“is almost passed out drunk in a bar like the rest of his teammates because they’re taking the night off. Against all the rules. So I’m your only option.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Why aren’t I what?”
“Passed out drunk like the rest of your team?” I clarify. “If it’s their night off, it’s your night off.”
He stares at me with his usual flat look. “I never take a night off and I don’t get drunk.”
“Oh right, I forgot.” I raise my eyebrows. “You’re this extreme control freak who probably measures out his alcohol intake too.”
He keeps holding his blank expression. “I don’t know what they are teaching kids at school these days”—I narrow my eyes at his choice of words, but of course he’s unfazed—“but getting drunk isn’t cool. It makes you behave like a clown who has to stay glued to the toilet bowl the next day.” A pause then, “I had a real-life model to teach me the hazards of drinking.”
Oh right, his dad.
Of course I know about his dad. Who left them and was a neglectful alcoholic.
No matter what he pulled just now, I shouldn’t have brought it up.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”
“Not your fault,” he cuts me off.
“Your dad,” I hesitantly broach the subject. “He?—”
“No.”
“No what?”
A muscle jumps on his cheek. “I’m not talking about my father with you.”
As much as I want to know more about it, it’s not something I can push him about. Again, no matter what he just did. So I ask something else that I always wanted to know. “What about smoking?”
“What about it?”
“When did you start that?”
He waits a beat to answer. “Back in college.”
I so want to ask why. I so do, but I’m not going to. But then he goes ahead and explains, “People who smoked always looked peaceful. So I wanted to try it. I wanted to see what peace looked like.”
I swallow, my heart squeezing. “So why only one cigarette per day?”
“Because rules are important,” he says. “And because I don’t deserve a lot of it.”
“Don’t deserve a lot of what?”
His chest moves with a breath. “A lot of peace and cigarettes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand.”
I do.
I so do.
I need to. I want to.
Despite everything and myself, I want to understand him. Why he is the way he is. Although it’s not a big mystery, is it? He had a shitty childhood either due to his father or circumstances out of his control. So of course he’d grow up to be someone who craved it strongly. Rules, structure, control. I don’t understand why he thinks he doesn’t deserve peace, though.
But again, it’s not something I can push him to tell me.
“Well,” I begin, sighing. “I don’t know what they taught you at school back when dinosaurs roamed the earth”—I raise my eyebrows—“but smoking isn’t all that cool either. One cigarette or not, it slowly kills you and turns your lungs black.”
“Good for me then, isn’t it?”
“How is it good for you?”
“Because I think black may be my color.”
“Is it because you also have a black heart?”
“And a black soul to match. Like the devil.”
I stare at him.
He stares at me back.
I decide I won’t speak first.
He probably has decided the same thing.
Then I decide this is stupid. So I say, “You’re not that old. You know that, don’t you?”
He takes a few seconds to answer. Then murmurs, “I am.”
“And I’m not that young,” I keep informing him.
“You are.”
“I’m just seven years younger than you.”
“You’re younger than my baby sister.”
“What, is that your cut off? You can’t like a girl who’s younger than your sister?”
“Pretty much. I don’t want to think about who was making her pigtails when I was making my sister’s.”
“You—”
“Or”—he pointedly looks at my T-shirt—“what cartoons she was watching when my sister was hooked on Disney.”
“You’re so?—”
“But then again, I don’t like you, remember?”
“You—”
“So are we doing this or not?”
I have two choices here: I can either hang up now and put an end to this—and I should. Or I could take his help because I am nervous. I am very, very nervous. I hate that he knows that. I hate how he got that information, but I can’t deny that running lines with someone might help.
I also can’t deny running lines with him is something I never even dreamed about. I dreamed about him being jealous, of him wanting me back, of him kissing me, of me dancing for him. But I never imagined I’d be sharing my passion with him. And as much of an asshole as he is, I still want to make the dream I never saw come true.
“First, I didn’t have pigtails. They were too much trouble for my mother, so up until I was fourteen, my hair was really short. She wouldn’t even let my nannies braid my hair”—his jaw clenches—“and second, all kids love Disney. A lot of adults love Disney too. And third, yes, we are doing this. But first, I want you to show me something.”
A frown appears between his brows. “Show you what?”
“Your room.”
“What?”
“Show me your room.”
His frown only thickens. “You want me to show you my room.”
“Yes. Show me.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “Because I want to see it.”
Because if I’m sharing my passion with him, I want him to share something of his. Which he won’t do by himself. I’m going to have to force him. Besides, this is probably the last time we’ll talk like this. After tonight, Shepard will be back and when I tell him the truth, all of this will be over, right? No late-night phone calls. No pictures. No blackmail. We will have no reason to be in contact with each other.
Like it’s been for the past year.
He will go back to standing in a corner of a room and I will go back to dancing and being with Shepard. This time around, it will be for real.
Plus I want to punish him a little for what he put me through just now. And what better way than to force him to show parts of himself when he’s always so adamant about staying in the shadows.
“You want to see my room,” he repeats, still confused.
“Yes,” I answer. “First, because you pulled such a bullshit stunt with me and mocked me. And second, every night you ask me to show you something. Every night you ask me to send you pictures. Of stupid things. Of inconsequential things. I mean, you don’t even ask to see my face and I don’t know if it’s insulting or flattering or whatever, but it’s only fair that you show me something in return. So”—I lift my chin—“turn the phone and show me your room.”
He studies me for a few moments. “I don’t ask to see your face because I don’t need a picture to remember it. It’s here”—he taps his temple with his long finger—“burned in my fucking brain. And you’ve got a boyfriend, remember? You don’t want your face on another man’s phone in case it gets into the wrong hands. In case that man’s an asshole.” Before I can open my mouth to say anything at all, he answers the question I never asked, “And yes, I know these things because I’ve got a sister your age. She’s slightly older than you but still.”
And then I’m not staring at his face anymore.
I’m staring at his room.
Which is a shame because it’s something I’ve really wanted to see for a long, long time. I’ve really wanted to get a glimpse into his life, any glimpse. And now that I’m getting it, I can’t completely focus on it because my mind’s still on what he just said. My mind’s still on the fact that… did he just imply that he was protecting me?
By not asking to see my face.
He did, didn’t he?
How… How does he do that?
How can he be so cruel and heartless, a villain, one second and then turn around and be my tortured hero the next? How can I both hate and love him at the same time?
Maybe because hate is just love wrapped up in barbed wire. Or maybe for us, love is just hate coated in glitter.
In any case, I try to focus.
I try to take in what’s in front of me because I may not get the chance after tonight. So I soak in every little detail of his hotel room. Which I have to say, at the first glance, is not all that interesting. It’s a generic hotel room with a gray carpet and the bare essentials someone might need to survive: a couple of armchairs by the window that overlooks the snowy city, a chest of drawers, a closet, and a little hallway that breaks off from beside the closet where I assume the bathroom may be and the room’s door.
Everything is neat and free of mess.
Very Stellan, I’d say.
Cold, smooth, and untouched.
But then there’s his bed.
It’s the only thing in this room that holds any life in it. The sheets are rumpled; the pillows are strewn about. The gray blanket is untucked and lies in a heap at the foot of the bed. In fact, it’s not even lying there; it’s dangling half off the bed. As striking as it is, the state of his bed, it’s not the most striking thing, though.
That title goes to all the books that are scattered around on the bed.
I run my eyes all over them, trying to take in as much as I can at the first glance. Some are thick. Some are thin. Some are easy to see because they’ve landed on top after some kind of explosion went off. Some are hidden under the debris of other books. Some are hardbacks. Some are paperback. Some have their corners folded. Some are in pristine condition.
But all of them belong to him.
All of them seem touched and read and probably loved by him.
Swallowing, I go, “Do you…”
He turns the phone to bring his face into focus. It appears tighter than before. The lines sharp and the features honed, dark eyes careful. As if he hates giving me a peek into his extremely private world, but he’s doing it nonetheless.
Because I want to see it.
Then, he asks, “Do I what?”
“Always travel with these many books?”
He watches me for a few moments, keeping silent before replying, “Yeah.”
“Were you…” I ask, watching him back, “looking for something to read? Is that why they’re all scattered around like that?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you find something?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to read it?”
He slowly shakes his head. “No.”
My heart squeezes. “Because you can’t focus?”
“No.”
“Because of me?”
“Yes.”
My heart squeezes harder. My belly swirls.
I feel things running up and down my spine.
Then, whispering, “I’m sorry.”
He exhales a short breath before rasping, “No, you’re not.”
This time, I shake my head slowly. “No, I’m not.”
My unabashed honesty makes his lips twitch.
“Tell me your favorite book,” I ask him then because I’m not letting him off the hook so easily.
He shoots me a look.
And I raise my eyebrows in response. “Look, we can either argue about it and waste time, or you could just give up and do as I say so we can move on.”
He stares at me for another four seconds before sighing and then leaning forward, he reaches for something. He holds up a book he must have gotten from the scattered pile on his bed. It’s one of the thicker paperback books and has the left-hand side corner of the cover folded. I see the yellow pages and the small black lettering peeking through as I read the title.
“The Adventures of Rune,” I read out loud before looking up at him. “What’s it about?”
His jaw moves back and forth as if he doesn’t want to say. “Adventures of a man called Rune.”
“Ha-ha. Tell me.”
He moves his jaw back and forth again, and he keeps doing it for some time. Before he gives up one more time and begins to tell me the story. It’s about a group of survivors who are trying to make it on a distant planet after earth has been destroyed. There are strange animals on it. There are hostiles on it. It has a purple moon and three suns and a bunch of other stuff that I don’t really get.
And if I’m being honest, I drift off after a while.
Because A: I didn’t think it would take a while for him to tell me the story. And B: I have other things to focus on. Like how amazing he looks right now. How his tanned skin simply shines. How his eyes glitter. There’s a slight tilt to his rose lips as if he’s on the verge of a slight smile. How he’s talking with his hands.
I mean, when has he ever talked with his hands?
He’s moved them twice now. Twice. While trying to explain about this acid rain that happens during the full purple moon and how it kills people.
And I realize something.
He loves it.
He loves this story. He loves this book.
He loves books period.
“You love this,” I tell him, cutting him off while he was talking about a character who gets killed halfway through while he thought he could’ve had a good redemption arc.
“Hence the favorite,” he deadpans.
“No, I mean you love books,” I explain.
He shrugs. “They’re okay.”
I lean forward. “Are you kidding me? You carry that book around, among other books, wherever you go. I asked you one question about it and you couldn’t stop talking. I mean, you. Who never says more than two words at one time, let alone a whole paragraph of words. You. And the way you lit up?” I shake my head. “Oh my God, Stellan, you love it. I’m sorry, but you do and…” Something occurs to me then. “Do you love soccer this much?”
I don’t know why I asked that.
Except I don’t think I’ve ever seen him light up like that for soccer.
And I should know. I’ve watched him a lot.
“You don’t, do you?” I conclude when he holds his silence.
At my words, that silence becomes even thicker. I can see it pulsating between us. I can see it making his body tighter, more rigid.
“Is that why you…” I keep going. “Is that why you never went pro? Because you don’t…”
Holy shit.
That’s why, isn’t it?
He doesn’t like soccer.
Stellan Thorne, who everyone calls the Cold Thorn because he’s known for his legendary control on the soccer field, he’s known for always keeping his cool no matter what and always making the goal even under extreme pressure, doesn’t like soccer all that much. That one of the Thorne brothers, soccer royalty of Bardstown, doesn’t love soccer as much as his siblings do.
It feels like a dirty little secret.
A secret no one else knows. No one else could’ve even guessed it.
I didn’t even guess it and I’m a certified Stellan Thorne stalker.
“Oh my God, is that why you wouldn’t accept the promotion for the longest time? Because you?—”
“I wouldn’t accept the promotion”—he finally breaks his silence, his voice lashing—“because my brother needed it more than me. He deserved it more than me. He needed that job more that I ever did, all right? Now?—”
“So then why do you do it?” I ask, my voice high sounding. “Why do you do this job if you don’t need it? Why do you do it if you don’t love it? If?—”
“Because I don’t have to love it,” he declares.
“What?”
“Why does everything have to be about love?”
“But if you love books?—”
“I don’t fucking love books, all right?” he lashes out again, a muscle in his cheek jumping.
“It’s a job,” he tells me. “It’s a fucking job and doing it well is the only thing that matters. As long as you do your job well, you don’t need to wax poetic about it. You don’t need to write songs about it. Love is not a requirement. Love is never a fucking requirement for anything. Love, like any other emotion, makes things complicated. I don’t want to love anything, let alone my shitty fucking job. Is that clear? I’m not a teenage girl with delusions of grandeur or misguided notions. I’m not a teenage fucking girl who thinks love is the answer to all her prayers and her dreams.” He stares at me, his eyes cold and harsh. “I’m not you. So are you finally fucking done so we can do this and I can get some sleep?”