12. Petra
PETRA
My cheeks flush instantly. His words seem to summon up long-buried images and sounds and sensations that I would rather keep suppressed.
I shake my head, my hair falling forward to hide my face.
“No,” I whisper in a barely audible voice. “I don’t.”
“That’s okay,” Sin replies in a gentle tone. “But I just want you to know . . . I don’t regret it.”
This makes me look him square in his face. He’s looking at me with the same intensity that he had worn on the night of the party.
“You don’t?” I ask, a quiver breaking up my voice.
Sin shakes his head, his expression sincere. “Really, I don’t, Petra. And I don’t think you should either.”
I want to respond with something, anything, to tell him how conflicted I feel, but the words form a lump in my throat.
Instead, I can only look at him in wordless wonder, searching his face for any mark of insincerity. But all I see is honesty and a hint of concern.
I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts.
What I say next may have been a matter of instinct or a secret part of my brain playing its tricks without consulting the rest of me.
But the moment the lines leave my mouth, I know there’s no taking them back.
“Sin, let’s just forget about it,” I say with a nonchalance that amazes me. “Everyone has an embarrassing sex story, right? That’s all it should be.”
His face falls, and for a moment, he looks hurt. But then something shifts in his eyes, an almost . . . sinister glint I’ve never seen before. “Is that all it was to you?” he asks, tension hardening the edges of his voice.
I swallow, taken aback by the sudden shift in his demeanor. “Wha-what do you mean?”
“Do you have many of those stories, Petra?” he shoots next. “Other guys like me who amused and entertained you before being sent packing?”
The heat in his voice feels like a physical blow at this point.
“No, of course not!” I cry out. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” Sin’s eyes narrow as he steps closer, and I realize that he has blocked my way to the only door out of the shed.
Can I blame my raw, emotional state for the way my senses now mark him as a source of very real danger?
Am I overthinking it when the gentle guy I had known and befriended is completely replaced by this grim-faced, tight-lipped interloper?
“Of course I have a past, Sin,” I eventually manage to say, a slight tremble to my voice. “I bet you have one, too.”
“With whom?” he asks without missing a beat, his voice a little too calm. “Names, Petra.”
The intense timbre of his words makes me take a whole step back. It’s an eerie scene, as if the person before me has just taken off a mask I didn’t even notice he had been wearing this entire time.
My frightened face must have cautioned him. Or maybe I have been hallucinating. Because in just another instant, the old Sin is back with a wide, charming smile, and the broody, frowning Sin is nowhere to be seen.
“Sorry, sorry, that was weird,” he says, stepping back and giving me a wide berth. “I’ll do what you want, Petra. Anything to make you happy.”
Again, I’m confused by this swift change from demanding to placating. It leaves me feeling off balance, unsure of what to say next.
“I just . . . I don’t want anyone to know, Sin,” I finally manage to say. “I don’t want people to gossip. They already dislike me enough, and I don’t want to give them more reasons to resent me.”
Sin’s smile fades, replaced by a look of understanding.
“You won’t,” he assures me. “I won’t say a word. Pinky promise.”
He raises his pinky finger so solemnly that I smile again, despite the tension between us just seconds ago.
“Thank you,” I reply shakily, not entirely sure what else to say.
Sin steps closer, closing the distance between us.
“We can keep this between us,” he says, his voice gentle. “No one else needs to know.”
Something about the velvety purr of his words frightens me a little. Is he flaunting his power over me by assuring me he wouldn’t misuse it? The thought of being at the mercy of anyone, even a guy like Sin who’s supposed to be easygoing and laid-back, makes me see red.
I have to convince him that I couldn’t be more indifferent, more unaffected, by our fateful tryst that night.
“Besides, God forbid I become a target for your groupies. Those girls can be vicious.”
“That is slander, Petra!” he cries out with an exaggerated look of rage. “I don’t have any groupies.”
“Right, Sin.” I roll my eyes. “I see them every day. There’s Brittany, that freshman girl whose dad owns an NFL team.
” I begin counting names off on my fingers.
“There’s her snooty friend Joanna who has like, a million followers on Instagram, and don’t forget that sophomore who allegedly comes from royalty .
. . what was her name again? Quirm? Quint? ”
“Her name’s Quinn,” Sin replies between bouts of laughter, “and her mother is a cousin of the Dutch princess. And she is not a groupie. None of those girls are!”
“Sure, Sin, whatever you say.” I cross my arms and lean back, even though my heartbeat is still pretty high and my fingers are quivering in tension. I will not let him see how unsteady I actually feel.
But what he says next ends up leaving me floored, nevertheless.
“You know, Petra.” Sin looks thoughtful, as if carefully choosing his words. “What you see and what might actually be are two completely different things.”
I stare at him, trying to read between those cryptic lines. Does he mean that all those girls vying for his attention don’t really mean anything to him?
Screw it, I don’t have the patience for these fuckboy mind games.
“You got more of those pearls of wisdom?” I straighten up and start gathering my things. “Anyways, just . . .” I can’t really look him in the face, so I turn toward the main door as I say, “forget it happened, okay? Let’s agree that it was a one-off thing and leave it at that.”
What am I doing? What about this ba— this you-know-who? So great is my distress that I don’t even care about referring to the new life inside me by a nondescript nickname.
Ha, a Freudian slip! Maybe that’s what you really think about this situation?
Before my thoughts can unravel anymore, I say, “I should go.” I need to get out of here, or I will lose my nerve completely. “I have . . . things to do.”
Wow, Petra, that was so smart!
As I turn to leave, his hand shoots out, gently grabbing my wrist.
“Wait, Petra,” he says softly, a great yearning in his voice.
“It’s okay, Sin. We don’t have to talk about it anymore,” I reply with the most forced indifference ever displayed by a human. “Let’s just forget about it, right?”
Almost at the same time, he says, “What if I don’t want to forget about it?”
At first, I almost don’t hear him. But then, his words seem to rebound in the silent, sun-specked air of the shed.
And I know I will never forget them.