7. Chapter Seven #2
His arm gets heavier by the second. “Just things.” My pace increases as the first dregs of regret seep into my consciousness. I should have at least suggested his place instead of mine; would have allowed for an easier escape.
Why did I do this again? How many times have I done this and hated myself afterwards? I never fucking learn.
“Wow,” he says, dragging out the word, as we ascend the stairs to my apartment. “Nice building. It has such old charm and character.”
I hum noncommittally, my focus on placing one foot in front of the other without tripping.
My buzz may have decreased, but the dizziness has yet to subside.
By the third floor, a heaviness full of rot settles in my gut—a warning my body sends that my mind refuses to receive.
Mistake, it screams. I knew it walking over, I knew it at the bar, and I know it now.
What’s the alternative? Pacing my empty apartment, waiting for he-who-shall-not-be-named to appear?
James chatters all the way up. His words fill the silence with observations about the building, comments about where I used to live, questions regarding my life here. Each sound grates against my nerves like sandpaper, but I force a tight smile and keep climbing.
Finally, I think when my door comes into view.
I fumble with the keys and more doubt before waving him inside.
The space is different with someone else in it—smaller and less mine.
The jar of flowers snags my attention, along with my crystals.
Will James comment on their strangeness? Judge me for them?
Would I care?
He doesn’t do either, too busy studying me, his eyes roving over my body with the undisguised interest of someone who believes his moment has arrived.
“Drink?” I offer, now desperate to postpone what comes next.
“I’m good.” He eliminates the space I’d tried to maintain between us. A hand rises to my face, fingertips tracing my jawline as if to memorize its texture. “Unless you need one?”
Yes, I do need one, or a few, to get me through this night.
I keep my thoughts hidden, shaking my head before his mouth descends. This is why I went to the bar. This is what I wanted. This is what I need to silence the yearning for something I can’t name.
His lips press against mine, warm and insistent. The kiss isn’t bad, technically speaking. He clearly knows what he’s doing, applying the right amount of pressure as his tongue seeks entrance in a way that isn’t repulsive.
But something’s wrong.
Instead of warming, my blood ices over. Each point where his skin touches mine sends a wave of nausea through me, my body is rejecting the foreign sensation. His hands slide down my waist, drawing me closer, and bile rises in my throat.
I ignore it. Press into him with deliberate intent. This is just nerves…my body’s typical resistance to human contact. It will pass once things progress and the physical sensation eventually overrides the discomfort. It has to.
His hands become bolder, sliding to grip my breasts through the fabric covering them before squeezing hard. Why am I not responding? There should be some flicker of desire, or pleasure, but there’s nothing. Just a mounting unease that threatens to choke me.
“You’re gorgeous,” James murmurs against my neck, his voice rough. “Been wanting you all night.” I flinch—no, cringe? Gag? I’m not sure at this point, only understanding that this whole situation is gross.
The edge of my bed slams into my legs as he pushes us back before guiding me down. I fall willingly, my eyes remaining closed. I cannot witness this man hovering over me in my safe space.
His weight sinks me into the mattress as each kiss grows more demanding.
It’s as if the world rests on me with the way my lungs constrict.
This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong.
His taste, smell, touch—all of it signals my fight or flight, and for once I’m not enjoying the dose of adrenaline that accompanies it.
Yet I persist, hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. For some stupid reason, I’m determined to see this through. To prove that I can still do this; still function as a human being capable of basic intimacy.
His fingers tug the zipper of my dress with impatient jerks. Goosebumps trail along my newly exposed skin as he shoves the dress down, an appreciative hum leaving his throat when he reveals my bra.
“Knew you’d be perfect,” he mumbles, more to himself than me, I think. Hands shift to the clasp, ready to remove the final barrier between my nakedness and his eyes.
That’s when I break.
“Stop,” I gasp, shoving at his chest with a panic-filled strength. “I can’t—this isn’t—I need you to stop.” Move, you asshole!
He doesn’t, freezing as his brows crease. “What’s wrong?”
Everything! Everything is wrong. My skin shrivels where he’s touched it, my stomach churns at a rapid pace, and my heart pounds with alarm rather than passion.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I manage, wriggling out from under him to claim the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry, but I need you to leave.”
James sits back on his heels, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief to anger in rapid succession. “You’re kidding, right? After all that at the bar and bringing me all the way up here?”
My cheeks burn, but I hold my ground. “I made a mistake. I’m asking you to—”
“A mistake,” he repeats, voice cold. “So, what was the plan? Get me all worked up, and then what? Get off on the power trip of saying no?”
“It’s not like that.” The protest is weak as I cover myself with the dress once more. “I thought I wanted this, but I don’t.”
He launches to his feet, looming over me with his shirt half-buttoned, hair mussed. I can’t meet his eyes. “You’re fucking with the wrong guy, you know that? I’m not some toy you can play with and throw away.”
A different kind of unease caresses my spine. I force myself to stand as well, creating distance between us. “I’m not playing games. I’m telling you I want you to leave. Now.” This time I do meet his eyes and, fuck, the intent in them scares me.
For a tense moment, I think he might refuse. Take what he thinks he’s earned before doing as I’ve asked. His hands clench, jaw working as if chewing through his options. Then he laughs, the sound empty of humor.
“You know what? Not worth it.” He buttons his shirt with jerky movements. “Crazy bitch probably would’ve stabbed me in my sleep anyway.”
The insult almost offends me, but more than anything I’m relieved. He’s leaving. That’s all that matters.
I say nothing as he straightens his clothes and grabs his coat from where it fell. After a brief pause at the door, he turns back with a sneer. “Get some fucking help,” he spits, then slams the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.
The moment he’s gone, my knees give out. I slide down the wall to the floor, a sob tearing from my throat before I can catch it. My hands shake violently as I try to tug the zipper of my dress back up, but my fingers won’t cooperate.
Wetness coats my bare thighs, and I realize I’m crying—heavy, wracking sobs that steal my breath. I want to scrub myself raw to erase the feeling of him.
I can’t breathe. Each inhale catches halfway, trapped behind a pressure that’s building in my chest, thick and sticky. The weight threatens to crush my sternum into my spine. My heart beats a frantic rhythm, a trapped bird seeking escape from a cage of bone and muscle.
My head spins—from the alcohol, from the panic, from the lack of oxygen making it to my brain.
From my utter stupidity. I press my palms against my temples, squeezing as I attempt to steady the world that’s tilting beneath me, but the pressure only grows.
Switching tactics, my hands flatten against my sternum, pushing back against the invisible force crushing me.
Nothing helps. Nothing stops the roaring in my ears or the tunnel vision creeping in from the edges. Or my brain’s certainty that I’m dying right here on my apartment floor in a bunched-up dress with mascara trailing down my face.
I had emergency medication once—for moments exactly like this, when the world collapses inward and my body forgets how to function. But I tossed the pills when I moved to Montréal, convinced I no longer needed them. That I was past these attacks that left me wrung out and hollow.
Stupid. So, fucking stupid.
I need something, anything, to anchor me, and remind me this isn’t a death-made cage, just my mind playing its cruelest trick. To tell me that oxygen still exists, that my lungs still work, and my heart won’t explode from the strain of beating too fast for too long.
A sound filters through the chaos—my name, whispered on an impossible current of air.
Maven.
Great. Now I’m hallucinating during a panic attack. New level of crazy, even for me.
I shake my head frantically, which only makes the dizziness worse. More wetness greets my thighs as tears continue to fall, hot against my chilled skin.
Maven.
This time, the whisper isn’t just heard but felt. I jolt upright, scrambling back against the wall, eyes wild as they search the space.
Not empty.
He sits cross-legged on the floor before me, the hem of his black coat pooling around him like spilled ink. The white fabric still obscures his face, and there’s the perfect stillness of his posture. But he seems almost relaxed…as if appearing in my apartment is the most natural thing in the world.
I freeze, tear-streaked and disheveled, staring at the figure before me. My heart still pounds, my breaths ragged, but now there’s a new element in the panic—something between terror and relief.
He’s here. He’s here and real. I’m not alone.
Or I’ve finally, completely lost my mind.