turnpike

xii

✗ ✗ ✗

I awake clutched to him like his favorite toy, his soft breathing in my ear, and for one blissful moment I forget there's anything wrong.

I forget about Callie and the end of our friendship. I forget about the dead pledge. I forget about that night and the feel of his lips on my skin.

I forget that I am ruined.

He's no longer asleep behind me, his fingers rubbing circular patterns on my stomach. With each slow swirl they inch lower until there is only a hairsbreadth between right and wrong. But everything is wrong now. It always has been, I know this, but it is only in this moment that I am finally willing to acknowledge it.

I am ruined, and he is responsible.

"Good morning," he murmurs in my ear, and now his fingers knead me in ways I once thought were right, all because he convinced me it was. "Damn, you're already so wet, baby."

He takes this to mean I want him, not as my body betraying me like it always does for him. I don't want him now, and I hadn't wanted him then, but there were times in between where I cannot lie and say I didn't.

I am ruined, and I make myself sick.

He doesn't seem surprised when I struggle out of his arms and fall out of bed, clutching at walls and furniture as I stumble into the bathroom. Vicious nausea rips through me, demanding I drop to my knees on the cold tile, skin near splitting as I go down. All of last night rushes out, splattering into the toilet and down the front of the crimson and gold t-shirt he's put me in. I want to tear it from my body and burn it all down, he and I included. Is that not what we deserve? To burn for our shared sins?

Cool fingers caress the back of my neck as I heave, pulling my hair away from my face. He's murmuring something meant to soothe, but all I do is retch harder.

"That's it, get it all out," I hear him say. Then, as if I need to be taught a lesson, he continues, "A girl like you really shouldn't drink that much. Something bad could have happened."

I want to toss my head back and laugh until I can laugh no more. He does not see himself as the Bad That Could Have Happened, only as My Savior. He thinks me lucky to have encountered him that night and last night and all the nights in between, thinks my life is better with him in it than not. Does he not see that he is my destruction?

Does he not see that I am his?

I sit back on my heels once my stomach is empty of last night's horrors, his hand wrapped around the back of my neck. I am helpless in his grip now, and when he suggests I rid myself of the vomit-covered shirt, I comply without protest. Soon I sit in front of him in a matching set of lace, far more than what I would have expected. The relief I feel is oily, like this lack of violation is hardly something to be pleased by, but it's a step up from the last time I barely remembered the night before.

"Get in the shower," he instructs, tightening his grip on my neck for one quick second before releasing it. He grabs my elbow instead, and I sway when he hauls me to my feet. I stand steady once he lets go. "I'll put some clean clothes out on the bed for you, all right? Come to the kitchen when you're done and I'll make you something to eat."

This show of kindness does nothing but make me feel ill again, and I'm tempted to vomit once more. I swallow it back as he reaches up to push my hair behind my ear, eyes searching my face without a hint of malice in them.

I can feel something inside me snap.

"I love you," he says.

"Do you?" I ask.