eight
“Wish I could say the same.”- Callisto
Thursday Afternoon…
Leo has been gone for hours, but my lips are still tingling from our kiss. I tried to take my mind off it by meditating and doing a few yoga poses in Leo's spacious living room, but I found my efforts to be futile.
No matter how many times I attempted to clear my mind, the feeling of Leo's scruff against my cheek kept pushing its way back to the forefront, followed immediately by how shockingly soft his firm lips were.
How he tasted like mint toothpaste, sweet syrup, and a hint of tobacco that I found I enjoyed, much to my dismay.
I sigh, moving from the place I dramatically starfished on the floor after attempting a reclining bound angle pose. I really need to get my mind off of this. I am going stir crazy and am probably suffering from Stockholm Syndrome at this point. It has to be Stockholm Syndrome, right?
Because what Leo was saying made a lot of sense to me, and that is the only explanation I can think of at this point.
Sure, Leo had made some accusations about me that were not true at all, but the basis of his argument is correct, and that’s what bothers me the most.
It rattled me a bit, and that’s all I have been thinking about, besides the kiss, of course.
The price of my wardrobe could probably supply a foodbank with enough groceries to operate for at least a year. I told Leo that my father has given money to charity, but that could have been a lie. I don't know, but I hope it’s true.
I haven't given any money to charity, but that’s because my money is limited, unlike my father's.
I only have my trust fund to live on. I was planning to give money away once I broke into the art dealing industry, but that hasn’t happened yet.
I know that Leo would say I don't need the money that I have.
I could live on a fraction of it, but that’s not the point. Is it?
The issue is, I’m not sure I can argue with his logic because people live off a fraction of the money I have every single day, but it’s not my fault that I was born rich.
“Okay. Great. Now I’m arguing with myself,” I say out loud. “And talking to myself. I need to find something to occupy my mind before I truly go insane.”
I’m so frustrated with the whole situation and the questions floating around in my head, I want to scream and curse at the top of my lungs, which is a feeling so foreign to me, it shocks me. Yes. I need to find something to do.
I slowly get off the floor, the rug plush under my toes.
I look around the living room for the one hundred and forty sixth time, eyeing the television and the systems attached to it.
I haven't watched television in years. I don't even own one, preferring to occupy my time with something more stimulating.
In another brief moment of insanity– I’m having a lot of those these days it seems– I consider turning it on.
Instead, I search for a bookshelf that I somehow may have missed in the other one hundred and forty six times I’ve scanned the room.
When I find nothing, I take the quick five steps from the bookshelf to the closet.
I open it, finding more shoes. I assume they are Leo’s, but some appear larger than the ones that are lined up by the door. Leo is no small guy, so these have to belong to someone even taller. Which leaves me curious, and a little bit jealous, even though I would never admit it.
Oh God, what if those shoes belong to someone he’s dating?
Leo said he didn’t have one, but people like Leo cheat all the time.
They lie in every other aspect of life, so why should a relationship be any different?
He could have a wife and kids in another state for all I know at this point.
That could be who he is visiting right now.
I wouldn’t put it past him. However, as much as I hate to admit it, Leo doesn't strike me as the type, and he did say he didn't have anyone. Who do those shoes belong to then?
I continue snooping around the house, still finding nothing personal. No family photos. No trinkets or heirlooms. Not even any art, which hurts my soul. How could someone live their life with no art?
The only thing that I have found that tells me the least little bit about my new roommate is a framed picture of a soccer player that’s hanging on the wall.
I step closer, squinting at it. The man is wearing the orange and blue jersey that even I recognize as belonging to the New England Revolution.
The photograph is autographed by the player, black ink splaying across the page.
The New England Revolution is a religion in this area.
My nanny never missed a game, making their games a permanent fixture of my childhood.
After I moved to Italy, I never continued watching even though the sport is huge in European countries.
Did Leo ever play soccer? I can’t imagine a younger version of Leo on a field kicking a ball.
When I don't find anything of relevance on the ground floor, I walk upstairs.
I stop in front of Leo's room, debating about going in.
I want to take a peek. My curiosity is killing me.
I want to know if Leo's room is as clean as the rest of the house, as impersonal even.
I need to know more about Leo because I have barely scratched the surface with our conversations. That confuses me.
I step closer to the door, keeping my movements soft and measured, as if the door is a wild animal that will run away as soon as I look at it in the wrong way.
The door won’t tell Leo that I have opened it, but there is a weird kind of nagging in the back of my brain.
I’m doing something I shouldn’t, and I have this feeling that someone or something will tell Leo I have been in there.
However, my curiosity is too strong. I want to know what is behind the door. I want to look inside. It startles me that I may not be thinking in terms of the room. I push that thought out of my head, like many others I have been having lately.
I swallow, taking another deep breath as I reach for the door handle with a shaky hand.
My fingers are twitching, the rings adorning them clicking together with the jerky movement.
I have the crazy thought that it may burn me when I touch it.
I will be invading someone’s privacy, so does that make me any better than Leo?
I start to wonder if I have ever been better than Leo, and that thought makes me question my entire existence.
Right as I am about to touch the doorknob, the sound of a door slamming comes up the stairway. I jump, my whole body jolting with adrenaline. My heart beats rapidly, blood pumping at full speed through every single vessel. My limbs shake, my throat raw from swallowing a scream of fear.
I don't think Leo would kill me for trying to go into his room.
He’s had plenty of opportunities to kill me, but he hasn’t.
He has even saved me a few times. Peadar would have surely killed me if he had found out I had tried to escape.
Any ransom money he could have gotten wouldn’t have been worth the risk.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself before I go to investigate. I force my jittery legs to work, going down the stairs slowly, in fear I will fall down them. I grip the handrail to keep my balance, continuing my breathing techniques that will hopefully slow my racing heart.
Is it Fletcher, Evan or even Daron? I don't know if or when Leo plans to come back, so I’m not completely sure that it’s him. When I walk into the kitchen, finding Leo gulping down a glass of water, I’m surprised.
Leo's scruffy throat bobs with the action, as his steely eyes find mine over the top of the glass.
I keep eye contact, even though I very much want to look away.
I also want to watch the water slide down Leo's throat.
I want to inspect the way his lips are wrapped around the rim of the glass.
How they are parted to let the liquid through.
I shake my head, finding Leo's eyes again. He doesn’t look angry anymore, but he does look tired. I am tired, too, even though I haven't done anything. It feels like a month has passed in the last 24 hours alone. Time is a strange concept.
“Where have you been?” I ask, because the silence is gnawing at my skin. I was used to silence. I get enough of it in my own home, so I don't know why it is bothering me so badly now.
Leo just… he seems to fill up a room. His whole personality does. Even when he’s silent, it doesn’t feel empty. But the silence that Leo is giving me right now feels different. Hollow. Like he’s standing in front of me while some part of him is still somewhere else.
“Out.” The answer is short. Leo grips his keys in his hand.
His departure earlier was marked with the unmistakable roar of a motorcycle peeling out of the driveway.
For a while, all I could picture was Leo’s tall, broad frame on top of a bike as his strong arms expertly maneuver it around curves.
I never found motorcycles at all attractive.
They always seemed unnecessarily loud and showy to me, but something about the idea of Leo on a bike does something to me.
It makes me want to swing my leg over to ride behind him, my chest pressed to his back.
“Wish I could say the same.” My response is bitter.
I intended the words to have a bite to them, but they came out sounding sad more than anything.
Leo's eyes soften for a split second. I wouldn’t have caught it if I hadn’t been staring into them.
He reaches up, grabbing his necklace and moving it back and forth on the chain for a beat. Leo shoves the keys into his pocket.
A few seconds later, the hand that is in his pocket reaches out in a flash, so fast, my eyes can’t follow it.
His large hand wraps around my wrist, and it feels as though it is burning me.
I look down in alarm. “What are you doing?”
I ask, my eyes darting between Leo's eyes and the hand wrapped around my wrist.
Leo doesn’t answer right away. He smirks, then places what looks to be a plastic bracelet around my wrist, the click audible throughout the kitchen.
“You said you wanted to get out of the house, so we’re going on a field trip.”