Two weeks have passed since Preston first let me into his room, and it's one of his better days. I'm sitting on his mattress, typing away at a uni assignment that's due in a week while Preston reads a fantasy novel beside me. I'm so immersed in my work that I don't notice him close the book, then place it on his lap.
'I had the most peculiar dream last night,' he murmurs, and I turn to him.
'A nightmare?' I ask as I try to remember if he woke me up with one.
He shakes his head. 'Not really. I was in a house—an empty house, entirely void of furniture, of people, of things. Just walls and floors, and there was nothing outside, either. The windows showed nothing more than black. Not darkness, just... black.'
He glances down at his book, then turns back to me with a furrowed brow.
'I started ripping up the floorboards with my hands. I've got no idea what I was trying to achieve, or what I was trying to reach, but I kept ripping the wood. My fingers were bleeding, my hands bruised and searing in pain, but I just kept ripping.'
'What was underneath?'
A pause, then, 'nothing.'
'That sounds pretty nightmare-ish,' I point out.
He flashes me something between a grimace and a smile, a look I didn't even think was possible for someone to muster.
'Nightmares are far worse than that,' he says matter-of-factly, then out of nowhere, adds, 'I'm sorry for the way I treated you after Robbie visited.'
I frown. 'It's okay. You were just trying to cope.'
He's shaking his head as he clenches his jaw. 'It's not okay. It's not fair for me to treat you like that just because I'm having a difficult time.'
I swallow, my mouth turning dry. No. No, he doesn't understand. It's my fault. This whole thing is my fault. None of this would've happened if I'd been able to keep my mouth shut. I scan his face, and knowing this is one of his better days, I realise it's time. Some honesty is long overdue.
'Preston, I...' I close my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. 'It's my fault. What happened.'
I open my eyes and I know he's about to argue, so I interject before he can.
'On Robbie's last night here, when you headed back into the club to get my jacket, Robbie and I were–We were semi-arguing, I guess, and it's–I mentioned things. Out loud. I didn't think–I thought I was quiet enough, but it–Someone overheard.'
There's a choking sound, and I don't realise it's me until my vision begins to blur. I wipe at the tear that's racing down my check as I try to steady my breathing.
'Someone overheard me, and they told people,' I croak. 'If I hadn't said anything, none of this would've happened.'
My eyes are so full of tears that I don't see Preston lean into me. He nudges my laptop aside, wrapping his arms around my torso as he pulls me into him. He's warm, the cotton of his hoodie soft against my damp cheek.
'This is all quite melodramatic,' he murmurs from above as I press my face into his chest, and he's... He sounds like he's trying to joke with me.
Did he even hear what I said?
'You don't understand,' I say through a sob. 'I was the source of it. I'm the reason everyone found out about your past.
'I don't care.'
'But it's my fault. People found out because of me.'
'Mia, I don't care,' he repeats, his thumb stroking the back of my neck. 'I don't care that it was you someone overheard, or even who overheard it. I don't care, okay?'
He's missing something. He must not be understanding what I'm saying. I open my mouth to try again, to make him understand, but he speaks before I can.
'I'm just really grateful you're here.'
During my third week at Preston's, I wake up one morning to find myself alone. The panic is immediate. I call his name as if I expect him to appear from underneath his desk or something, and I'm still half-asleep as I hurry out of his room. I check the bathroom. Nothing. I call his name again, but get no response. I barrel down to the first floor to check the bathroom there, but still nothing.
I've already started talking as I rush into the living room where Margot is watching something on her laptop.
'Have you–'
The words catch in my throat as I glance towards the kitchen area. He's there. Preston's there. Just, like, standing there as if it's perfectly normal, holding the fridge door open.
'Hi...' I say like a question.
He shifts his attention from the inside of the fridge to me, a packet of red grapes in his hand.
'Hey, are these mine?' he asks like it's nothing. 'Or yours, more accurately. I presume so because they're on my shelf.'
'I wasn't sure, but I said he can have them either way,' Margot interjects.
She must notice the what the fuck? expression slapped across my face because with her head turned away from Preston, she mouths, I'm trying really hard to act normal. I stifle a laugh. I'm euphoric. I literally want to cackle.
This is the first time he's left his bedroom in nearly a month.
'It's–Yeah, they're ours,' I reply with an overzealous nod.
'I'll pay you back for all the food and stuff, obviously,' Preston says as he enters the living area with the fruit in hand.
Given he's barely eaten any of the food he's referencing, like hell is he paying me a thing. I don't tell him that; I don't want to say anything that could threaten the possibility of him disappearing upstairs. I just smile.
The three of us sit on the sofa together, Preston with an open book as he snacks on grapes, Margot and I trying not to watch the whole time. I only know she's resisting staring because whenever I catch myself doing it, I glance at her to find her fighting the same battle.
Preston returns upstairs once he's finished eating, and he can't have spent more than fifteen minutes in the living room, but I'm thrilled. I'm evidently doing a shit job at hiding my happy-verging-on-deranged state because he asks me why I'm acting like I'm running on one brain cell.
'That's such a mean comment!' I whine as I drop to the mattress, which he's now sitting on, and give him a harsh shove. 'I'm happy. Sue me!'
For a moment, I worry the playful nudge overstepped the mark, but then I catch his lips twitch. It's a smile. He's smiling. The unfiltered joy racing through my bloodstream is clearly messing with my capacity to think rationally because I'm suddenly diving forward, my arms around him.
He can't have seen it coming because he falls backwards onto the bed, and he's laughing. Laughing! Not that he exactly has a choice because I'm literally pinning him down, but he doesn't shove me off. He mirrors my gesture, wrapping his arms around my back as his chest vibrates with another laugh.
I lift my head to peer down at him.
'Done?' he asks, his voice deep and smooth.
'Nope,' I reply, then lower my head to nestle it in the space between his neck and shoulder.
His skin smells like soap, and I realise he must've already showered. It means he was awake for a little while before I found him downstairs. At least half an hour, I'd guess. He was awake for half an hour, entirely alone and okay. He was okay. I need some way to expel the energy electrifying my body, so I squeeze him, then sporadically kiss his neck–not with any kind of romantic flare, but more so annoying, uncoordinated platonic affection.
He slides one of his hands up my back to stroke my hair, and as he combs his fingers through it, I peck his neck again. He's not even trying to get me off, and with the hand that isn't on my head, he traces circles on my lower back where my shirt has ridden up. He's so warm. I kiss his neck again, this time gently, just as he kisses my temple.
I kiss him again, and again, and again until I'm lifting my head to kiss his lips.
He kisses me back, a sigh escaping my mouth as if I've been waiting a lifetime for this moment. His tongue is sweet from the grapes he was eating, and there's a hint of mint from the toothpaste he must've used earlier this morning. Our kisses become less delicate, our breaths heavier as I adjust myself so that my palms are pressed against the mattress, his hands on my waist, the flimsy material of my pyjama shorts grazing his fingertips.
Before I realise he's doing it, Preston flips me onto my back, our kisses intensifying as I tug at his t-shirt. He follows my cue to pull it over his head while I fumble at the flyer of his jeans as if suddenly possessed, or maybe out of pure desperation for him–for us–and it's as if I'm incapable of thought, nor of logic, or anything close to it. I'm barely breathing as I pull him closer, and there's no rush; there's nowhere we need to be or anything we need to do, but I'm impatient. Far too impatient to bother with my own clothes, or any more of his.
The feeling of him inside me stirs, above all else, an overwhelming sense of relief. It's as if every good thing I've ever felt is hitting me all at once, as if it's been years, not months since we last did this. I have a sudden urge to cry, not in a bad way–not even close–but I fight it as I tug at the back of his hair with desperation while simultaneously pulling him as close as physically possible.
His breath is hot in my ear as he kisses the space behind it, and everything is familiar–he's so familiar that the lump in my throat is becoming so sharp that I'm sure it's going to pierce my skin. I need him. I've never needed anyone or anything more, and I'm telling him this. Between sighs of pleasure, I keep telling him I need him, not caring how pathetic it probably sounds as our bodies follow each other's rhythm.
I'm not sure what it is that triggers the recollection of where I am, of where I've been for nearly four weeks, but it hits Preston at the same time. It's been mere minutes since we started kissing, but he's abruptly tearing himself away from me; he's pushing me aside, and I can tell he's about to stand as he readjusts his flyer, so I reach for his hand to keep him sitting, to force him to look at me.
'Sorry. I'm really sorry.' He's speaking so quickly that I can only just make out the words. 'I shouldn't have–I didn't mean to–'
'No, it's–My fault,' I say, just as quickly. 'I kissed you. It's my fault.'
What the hell was I thinking? Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me?
I was so terrified of freaking him out downstairs that I rehearsed every glance, every word, every syllable, only to go and do this? I might not always be the most emotionally switched-on person, but this is beyond that. This is grossly irresponsible.
Preston's looking down at his hands, shaking his head.
'And summer, and over Easter,' he continues. 'I shouldn't–I never should've let that happen in the first place, let alone let it continue for as long as it did.'
I stammer. I want to tell him that I'm grateful for that time, that it was probably the happiest time of my life, but I can't. I shouldn't. That's not how I should feel.
Instead, in a gentle voice, I say, 'it's okay. We're okay.'
At that, Preston lifts his eyes to meet mine, his forehead creased with concern as he clenches and unclenches his jaw.
'We're okay,' I repeat, and finally, his face relaxes. 'I promise.'