7. Will
SEVEN
WILL
I leave the bedroom door open when I finally leave Ari in the living room. He knows where he belongs, and that he doesn’t need an invitation—he never has before, and he doesn’t now. I’m here for him if he needs me. No conditions, no questions.
I spend a long time in the bathroom, hoping that he’ll have reconsidered by the time I’m done. I shower and stand at the sink to brush my teeth.
My eyes fall on a small plastic bottle lying on its side, next to a pair of tweezers and a few torn pieces of cotton. The red and yellow plastic label is torn from being opened.
I stare at it for a long moment before picking it up like it might bite me.
Curious, I unscrew the cap and sniff cautiously, barely bringing it near my face.
The smell hits me immediately—sharp and chemical and a little sweet, like fruit scented permanent markers.
My eyes water. I pull back and screw the cap back on quickly.
The smell alone has the beginnings of a slight headache blooming behind my eyes. I can’t imagine willingly putting that up my nose. Why is this even a thing?
I looked it up after I forced the bartender to tell me what it was.
However normal or common he seemed to think it was, the idea of Ari using it made my chest tight.
Not just because we’re all sensitive to substances right now, but because of why .
Because of where he was and what he wanted to use it for. With that guy.
I set the bottle back where I found it and rinse my mouth, scrubbing at my teeth like I can erase the scent from my memory. I want to ask Ari about it. I want to ask him everything—What it feels like. Why he wanted it. If he’s okay.
But I know he’s not okay. Because of me.
My reflection is unkind. Dark circles pulling my eyes down, skin sallow.
The mirror reflects the various tattoos that are all Ari-coded.
His name in Greek on my arm stands out the most. He was so embarrassed when I got it, but I told him no one would know.
I’m the only person, other than maybe some of the label managers that have access to our personal files, that knows his full name.
“She thought it made me smart,” he told me when we were young. “I don’t even think she knew what a philosopher was.”
Ari’s mom was very young when she had him. Too young. She never finished school, and made a string of bad decisions that most would attribute to being too young and uneducated. But he remembers that she loved him. So much so that she risked her life, and lost her freedom, to save him.
Will he dream of her tonight? Or of him? He always has nightmares when he’s stressed out. And tonight, because of me, he’s definitely out of sorts.
When I step back into the bedroom, he’s still not here. I pause at the open door, listening, but I can’t hear his breaths to tell if he’s asleep or not.
I climb in bed alone. It feels wrong without him. Too wide. Too empty. I lie on my back, one arm stretched across the empty space where Ari should be, fingers curling into the sheets. I stare at the ceiling, listening for any signs of movement from the living room.
It’s miserable. I’m miserable.
My chest aches with the weight of everything I didn’t say, everything I can’t say. That last night wasn’t one-sided. That he didn’t make me uncomfortable. That I didn’t pull away because I didn’t want him.
The truth is so much worse.
I want him. I want him in a way I can’t separate from the guilt or fear of losing him. I want him so badly it scares me. And I can’t tell him, because the moment I do, I can’t take it back.
I lie staring at the ceiling, making shapes out of the shadows, letting the hours crawl by. At some point, I hear a sound, or I think I do. Maybe not… Yeah, no. I definitely did. And it was probably Ari.
I should probably go check on him.
Tip-toeing to the living room, I listen closely to the sound of his even breaths. It’s barely anything, but I hear something . A shift or a hitch. Maybe not even that, but I seize the moment anyway because I need an excuse. I need permission that I definitely don’t have.
Ari looks so small curled up on the couch. Like he did when he was little. He’s grown up and filled in a lot, no longer half my size, but he’s still smaller than me. It doesn’t help the protective monster inside me that claimed him as mine a long time ago.
He barely weighs anything as I scoop him up without waking him. He settles against my chest automatically, his body molding to mine like it remembers exactly where it belongs. His head drops against my shoulder, his warm breath puffing against my neck as I carry him back to our bed.
I lie him down and crawl in behind him, tucking him against my chest, arm firm around his waist. He sighs softly, something almost like relief as the tension drains out of both of us in real time.
This is fine. This is what he needs.
I don’t let myself think about what I need.