Bliss

twenty five

My room's a disaster, not of massive proportions, but there's a significant amount of dresses strewn across the carpet, and the white wood of my dresser is hidden beneath product. It's so bad that Spencer has to pick his way across the floor to reach my bed. He tucks his legs under him, places his hands on his thighs and watches as I sit in front of my mirror for final touches. The ribbed orange material of my dress folds in on itself and exposes a large expanse of thigh, which catches his attention and draws a loud wolf whistle from his lips.

"So who's going to be there tonight?" he asks once his show of appreciation comes and passes.

Just as I'm about to answer, my hairband snaps. It springs against my cheek, ruining my makeup, and causes three fat tears to trickle down my face. "I don't know," I mutter as I hunt for another hairband. "I barely know the people there myself."

"But you must have some idea."

"My brother, Jess, Matt."

"And."

"And?"

"Will he be there?" he asks, his eyes widening ridiculously.

"Isaac?"

"Yes, Isaac."

"I don't know, I suppose so." I turn from my reflection and fix my eyes on him. He squirms a little but refuses to look away, challenging me almost. I rise to the bait, latching on, and raise a brow. "Why does it matter?" I ask, my head falling to one side as I watch him squirm some more.

"You know why it matters."

"Do I?"

He closes his eyes, a semi-angelic expression washing over his face, and runs a hand across his forehead. "You kissed him, Lizzie."

"We weren't together."

"I know, but you still kissed him. Some part of you liked him enough to do it. Some part of you might still like him enough to do it again."

"What do you want from me?" I wail, blinking hard to trap my tears behind my buzzing eyelids. This isn't the second, third, or even fourth time this has come up, and I'm sick of it.

I wasn't the one who cheated.

I wasn't the one who messed up.

Yet, I'm the one under investigation.

Wasn't it enough that I picked him? Against all advice, I still chose him. Chose us.

"What I want," he says, his voice cracking, "is to know that it'll never happen again. For you to tell me that it'll never happen again."

So it isn't enough then.

I turn away from him, my gaze fixed on my tear-streaked reflection, and I shake my head. Well, it's more of a whole-body affair, the shock rippling through me until I'm a blubbing tremor. Then I feel his hand resting on my shoulder, his grip grounding me, returning me to reality, and I can't help but cry harder.

"Why don't you trust me?"

"I do trust you." He crouches down and wipes away my tears before crushing me into his chest. I melt against him, my arms winding around his waist, and inhale his clean scent until I feel like I'm falling into a valley of cotton, fluffed and waiting to curve around the contours of my body.

"It's him I don't trust."

I freeze. Literally, freeze.

"You don't need to trust him," I whisper, the words floating away. "But you do have to trust me."