Disarm / Rafe Cameron

04. He Must Love You

"Layne, c'mon, I was just messing with you," he sniffled again, pulling his shirt over his head. She didn't have the effort to tell him to lower his voice, but she didn't even know if her parents were still home. "Why are you mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at you,"

Rafe rolled his eyes, running both his hands through his hair and over his face. Her head hurt and she kept regretting snorting off his stupid key, from his stupid bag, and letting him sleep in her bed.

"Obviously you're all pissy. I can tell by the way you're not looking me in the eyes,"

Layne laid back in her bed, her head propped up on her one hand. She could feel herself frowning at him pulling his pants over his long legs. She had the urge to climb him.

"Do you remember last night?" she asked, picking at the string on her comforter. It was still there even a few days later. She hadn't noticed she was picking at the skin around her nails, and it was bleeding. The skin was tender and Layne winced when she touched it again. "What kind of question is that?" he laughed, looping his belt through the loops on his shorts. She felt sickly looking at him, as if he made her a smaller person, and her shoulders seemed to tense up by her ears—she had to reposition herself to stop it.

"You don't remember what you said?"

"Uh—I was high as fuck. Not really," he slipped his feet in his shoes, and his hair was greasy around his face. Layne wanted to wash it. She wished he would take a shower with her, maybe wash her hair, too. Her throat hurt as if she was going to cry, but the tears were dry and crocodile. It was almost as if she could feel her pupils dilating, and she had the urge to scream and act as though he broke in. She hated him so much that she felt like she could kill him, but she stayed on her place on the bed, and wallowed in invisible pity, like it was a kiddie pool. He didn't bat an eye—she knew why she felt dirty when he said he loved her; because it wasn't true, or sincere. Nothing he ever said was sincere.

"Okay," she muttered, as he sat down on the edge of her bed. His hand went to her leg again, and Layne wanted to melt when he started to circle his fingers over her ankle, like his canvas was her skin and he was drawing and painting over it with his hands. She could stare at him for hours—her throat still hurt, as if she was going to cry. Layne wasn't sure if the sweat on her forehead was from the cocaine or from nervousness—she didn't understand why he still made her nervous. He had seen her in her most vulnerable states—sometimes, she thought that he enjoyed that; her being vulnerable. He used it to his advantage, too much. Layne wondered if he lied about not remembering that he said I love you just to keep her wrapped around his finger. Almost like he could sense her tears.

He crawled over her, placing a few kisses on her neck and her face. Layne felt as though she couldn't help but smile—almost like it was being drawn on for her. She could taste the sweat on his lips, but didn't mind it, and when his hand swiped over her stomach beneath her shirt, it was like someone had lit her skin on fire. The feeling of isolation from his obliviousness and ignorance vanished when he always remembered where to touch her, how to do it, and Layne felt special—cherished enough for him to remember. Her bliss was short lived when she started to question whether she was just like other girls, girls he slept with, and he did the same with all of them—her body grew stiff at the thought. Rafe didn't seem to notice, wanting to take her shirt off, but her phone rang, and she had to push him off by his chest.

It was her mom—it bold letters on her phone—and Rafe didn't stop running his hands all over her as she would run away. Layne had placed a finger over his mouth to make sure he wouldn't make any noise when she answered the phone.