Chapter 4 #2
I sigh, forgetting that living life was a first for my mom, too, as for everyone.
Who raised her? My parents never spoke about their parents, siblings, or other family members.
It was just the three of us. No one ever came over.
I thought it was normal until the house burned down, my father burned with it, and I was suddenly thrust into a world I only knew about from my books and the television in the basement.
“What about you? What’d you do?” Trace’s question catches me off guard.
No one’s asked before. My thoughts and the emotions I’ve attached to them—anger, sadness, and regret—disappear, replaced with a different emotion I can’t put my finger on. I’ll revisit it later when I’m in my bed, thinking back over our conversation.
It’s hard to figure out what I feel these days because I’ve been either numb, scared, or nervous. Those emotions were how I lived with Dad, with a little bit of happiness here and there. Dad was more often drunk than sober.
I hug my knees tighter. “I read a lot. Binged shows. Did a lot of homework. Grew flowers using seeds my father gave me for my birthdays. I’d put the pots on the windowsill so they’d get some sun.”
His gifts were never extravagant. We didn’t have money. I was always grateful for any gift. It was the thought that counted.
“I was homeschooled, and when my mom . . .” My throat tightens. “When my mom couldn’t do it anymore, my dad took over. He gave me an F in math. When I saw that fat F, I couldn’t believe my own father flunked me.” I laugh into my knees, muffling the sound of my sadness. I miss my parents so much.
“I take it you didn’t have a cell phone or a computer?”
“No outside communication.”
“You must’ve been lonely.” There’s pity in his voice.
Pity isn’t new to me. Everyone who hears my story pities me. “I was at first, but I got used to it.”
“Three years is a long time.”
Counting homeschooling, it was longer than that. “Can we change the subject?”
My parents thought they were giving me an advantage by homeschooling me, but I’m at a disadvantage compared to my peers.
They have thousands of followers on their social media accounts and can navigate it like a pro, while I struggle to make a post or a reel or to tag someone. They dress in the latest styles. I can barely scrape together clothes that don’t clash.
Wearing all denim on my first day of class was a major faux pas.
I paired a long-sleeved denim shirt over a white T-shirt with matching jeans.
The girls rolled their eyes and laughed.
Trace watched my embarrassment unfold without saying a word.
He just looked at me with the same disinterest as when I moved into the main house.
“You’re in control, Sorrow.”
I’m not. Otherwise, I would be talking to the nice boy instead of sitting with the guy who threw a rock at that nice boy and then followed me. I shake my head. Followed isn’t the right word. Trace hunted me.
“I know you wanted to take a pass on the earlier question, but are you seeing someone?” I put up a shield over my heart. My heart beats fast. My mouth dries waiting for his answer. I grab my half-full bottled water, uncap it, and take a huge swallow of frigid water.
“Casually.”
My chest aches, and I hate that it does. “Is that all you’ll ever be into?” My voice is soft, unsure, quiet.
Being near Trace brings out all my insecurities. Am I good enough? For him, I am most definitely not. Am I pretty enough? I’ve never thought of myself that way. Am I smart enough? Not when my own father flunked me.
“True that.” He picks up a rock off the ground and tosses it toward the cliffside.
“How do you do that?” The ache in my chest doesn’t go away. It only gets worse. I hug my knees harder, crushing my chest against them, hoping the pressure will take away the ache.
“Do what?”
“Keep it casual and not catch feelings?”
At school, Trace exudes a nonchalance that the girls see as a challenge. I see it on their faces, taking their cues from the movies I’ve watched and the books I’ve read.
Who can make him smile or laugh at something they said? Who can get him to slide his muscular arm over their shoulders and pull them close to his tall, lean frame? I’ve seen him do that with only one girl. He doesn’t even do that with his hookups. No PDA. No showing favors.
It was Leigh’s friend Rue Lee, who attended our school to watch over Malice for his parents, and Malice convinced Trace to pretend to be Rue’s boyfriend to keep this other guy from bothering her.
Long story short, they weren’t a real couple, though their breakup kiss .
. . I was jealous, wishing it were me he’d kissed like that—with complete surrender and passion.
With as much experience as the girls say he has and how good he is in bed, the kiss would be swoon-worthy and phenomenal.
My cheeks heat just thinking about his lips on mine.
“I compartmentalize.”
“What does that mean?”
“I separate feelings from the physical.”
I can imagine him shrugging his big, broad shoulders, and his T-shirt stretching to adjust to his muscles. Trace is lean, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have muscles. I saw him without a shirt when we ran into one another in the kitchen.
He had just finished his workout and went to get something from the fridge.
I was rinsing off my paintbrushes in the sink before grabbing fruit.
I waited off to the side for my turn and avoided looking at his ripped body glistening with sweat, but I peeked when he bent at the waist, preoccupied with finding something on the bottom shelf.
I found that I like his half-naked state and his muscles. I also like Trace’s eye color, this greenish blue that reminds me of my favorite butterfly, the blue morpho.
“Is it easy to do?”
“Why? You have something in mind?” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice, laced with something dark that I can’t put my finger on.
“I might.”
“Pray tell, little mouse.” He shifts his body closer to mine until our arms touch and we’re sharing body heat.
A shiver passes through me, and I can’t tell if I’m excited or scared, but I do like Trace’s body keeping me warm and how good he smells, like chocolate and marshmallows with a hint of smoke from the bonfire.
I’m not sure what else I like about a boy.
That’ll come with experience when I meet more guys.
What I don’t want to experience is the raw ache in my chest and the tightness in my throat when I watched, along with half the school, Trace kissing Rue.
I never want to experience that pain again, and it’s the reason I came out here.
Seeing Trace looking at Phoebe was like watching a repeat of him kissing Rue.
It hurt, and I hated that I hurt. Then there was the anger and jealousy.
I wanted to yank out Phoebe’s hair. I wanted to scream at Trace to pay attention to only me.
Why am I angry and jealous? Why does it hurt so badly? Why am I obsessed with a guy who would never give me the time of day?
We live in the same house, but we might as well be living in separate towns with the way he looks past me. Even worse is when he looks at me like I’m his next meal, with the menace in his grin and the hint of darkness in his steely gaze.
Trace Saints is scary in this predatory way, and when he’s around and we’re alone, my heart pounds so hard I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. My stomach also knots, and every nerve ending comes alive. Am I scared? Excited? Turned on? They all feel the same, and Trace can help me tell them apart.
Then, when I see different boys, I’ll know the difference.
I pull the blanket from under me, shake it off, and drape it over his shoulders. He shrugs it off. I put it back on. “I can hear your teeth chattering.”
I can’t, but he must be cold in just a T-shirt. I lower onto my canvas bag and hug my knees to my chest. There are two heartbeats of silence, and then Trace scoots over and covers us with the blanket. It doesn’t fully stretch across us. We’re holding on tight to the edges.
“Lean into me. Wrap your arms around my bicep.” His warm breath lifts the baby hairs along my hairline. “The fucking temperature’s dipping, and no way in hell will I let you freeze on my watch.”
I do as he says. “What will take me off your watch?”
“When you move out.”
I thought so. I overheard his father threatening to cut off Trace’s weekly allowance and take away the new truck that was his gift for helping his team win the championship.
If I ever have children, I would never put conditions on my love for them or take away a gift.
A gift is just that—something given, and it’s that person’s to do with as they want.
“I’ll be out of your hair soon.” I rest my chin on his shoulder. It seems like the most natural thing to do with my body turned into his and my arms wrapped around his muscular one. “Then you and your parents can have your lives and home back.”
He doesn’t have a comeback. The silence stretches on. It’s my chance to fill it. To ask him a question I couldn’t before because I didn’t have a way to bring it up.
Talking about catching feelings and him compartmentalizing is my way in. Plus, out here, it’s neutral grounds. It wouldn’t have been right to ask him in his home, his territory.
“Trace?”
“Hmm.” He looks straight ahead.
“I don’t have a lot of experience, and you do. It amazes me that you don’t fall in love with the girls you sleep with.” It doesn’t. I hate that he’s seeing other girls. “Can you teach me how to compartmentalize too?”