18+ | Eva French relocates from sunny Florida to the gritty streets of Detroit, seeking a fresh start. But her new beginning takes a dark turn when she experiences a traumatic assault on her very first night in the city. Haunted by the incident, Eva...
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Eva French
After that night, we spent time together often—almost every day.
On the nights when he was absent from my home and I knew he wouldn't be knocking on my door, I took it upon myself to walk to his. The walk always felt longer than it really was and a bit unnerving if it was later at night, but my eagerness to see him made the stroll a ritual I willingly embraced.
"Really?" he would always say when he'd open the door, his face always etched with disapproval, "I've told you not to walk around this part of the neighbourhood alone at night. It's not safe, Eva... I was just about to head out to you, next time wait for me."
Although his brows would furrow in frustration and his eyes would gleam in exasperation, he'd let me in all the same. "You've got to get yourself a cell phone," he'd mutter grumpily as I walked past him and through his door.
He was very different when it was just him and I. In the initial months of knowing him, I had grown familiar with the side of him that he displayed to his friends. He was sarcastic and quick-witted with dry humor, and outgoing and gregarious during Jay's parties.
I often found myself contemplating the various facets of his personality. There were the ones I knew already, but I often wondered what sides to him I hadn't seen yet. I was certain there was a different side reserved for the girls he was intimate with. Then, there was the fleeting glimpse of another when he interacted with Jay's parents. Was he different at work? What about when he was angry or sad? What was he like when he was younger, when he was a teenager?
And then, there was the side he shared with me—did he ever show this side to anyone else? When he was alone with me, a gentle and more reserved version of him emerged. This was the side that made it hard for me to stay away from him. In our moments together, he was always tender and kind. We'd sit on his couch together, and I'd grow so unbelievingly comfortable in the warmth of his home and his presence that somehow, I'd always end up lying with him with his arms around me.
Once, he drifted off to sleep, the movie we had been watching humming in the background. I had taken advantage of this moment to look up through my tired eyes at his sleeping face.
He was truly a sight for sore eyes. When he was sleeping, he looked so peaceful and calm. I marvelled in silence at his beauty. I watched his torso rise and fall slowly with each breath and the way his shirt clung to his broad chest. His lashes were dark and long, more noticeable when his eyes were closed. His lips were full and soft, his stubble strewn across his strong jaw, some strands of his unruly brown hair falling on his forehead.
In moments like that, it felt like we were together. Sometimes I'd want to lift my arm and graze my fingers along his jawline and touch his hair.
But I never did, because he wasn't mine.
We never talked about his sex life or relationships with the other girls. I had no idea how many he was seeing or how often. In moments of intense curiosity, when questions about the girls he frequently saw hovered on the tip of my tongue, I'd restrain myself from prying. I bit the inside of my cheeks, reluctant to intrude on his privacy. Even with the burning curiosity, deep down, I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
