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“You like living on the edge, don’t you?” my voice cuts through the air.
“My parents used to call me the flight risk,” she responds, looking out over the empty street below.
I don’t even know if my parents would notice if I were gone.
“I understood why they thought that. I’ve always been a bit more reckless than Ella or Mimi,” she says. “None of the Reed siblings have run from our house.”
“Never thought about it?”
She lets out a soft laugh. “Why would I? Them taking me in was the best thing to happen to me.” She turns to me, giving the most genuine smile of the night, and turns back to the empty street.
“Do you hike up roofs often?” Wow, that sounds like a shitty pickup line. “I had a friend that loved being on roofs. The height made us feel like everything else was smaller, insignificant. As long as we were taller, we were safe.”
That’s one way to kill the mood. We’d do anything to escape the arguments and the crying. Even made mock plans to run away. We were dumb kids back then, and I might still be dumb. He got away, and I didn’t. The world below didn’t matter as long as we were taller than it.
“Oh,” her voice comes out, but it almost sounds accidental.
I look up, and Sally is facing me now with her face hardened and unreadable. It almost looks like someone smacked the life out of her features.
I jump to my feet. “Sal, are you okay?”
“Do you want to dance?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sally
I’ve never enjoyed being touched by men—or anyone, really.
I don’t think that’s an over-exaggeration, either. There are still days I have to tell myself not to recoil from the smallest touch.
That same wariness seeps into my bone marrow whenever Oliver reaches for me. I want to be comfortable with his light and warm touches. I know he won’t hurt me. Just like the times we ascended to our roofs. How his hand reached to help pull me up and the headphones we would share to drown out the world around us. It didn’t matter which roof we climbed as long as it was together and away from the world.
The truth is, I do trust Oliver, but that trust scares me. I don’t trust myself. Feelings well up inside of me. They want to break free. I’m scared that I can’t just see him as a friend or my hero anymore.
Block out the world with me.
Against my better judgment, I asked Oliver to dance because hearing him talk about me like he’d never see me again was ripping my heart out.
Now, we are just dancing in silence, moving to the rhythm of the beat. I’m turned away from him, fearing the look on his face. I can feel his gaze boring into my neck. I almost wore flats until Ella spoke to me voluntarily for the first time this week. She scolded me for thinking of lowering my height for a man. I smiled at the interaction, but it was short-lived. Ella was already walking away before I could apologize.
I scan the room, spotting a mess of couples dancing together. Each of the girls is pressed up against their man, grinding like it’s their job. I focus on one couple across the room from us. The man’s hands are trailing her body, from her stomach to her waist, pulling her into his space like they are one. Her hand trails up, meeting his neck, dragging her nails across his skin. The man lowers himself to kiss her neck, and I can see her visible reaction. He continues to gnaw at her nape.
I can’t help the jealousy that consumes my mind whenever I see cis girls in these situations. They don’t fear rejection over something they can’t control. They can walk up to a guy they like and have a good night. I can’t hook up unless it’s through an app and some man’s fetish. I can’t dance with someone without feeling like I have to expose my whole life to them.
I’m more than my identity, but I can’t help but see the world through different lenses. I can’t live in ignorant bliss.
I’m not sure why I do it, but I look back, half expecting to see nothing, but my eyes meet Oliver’s deep sea-green ones looking like storm clouds reflecting in the water.
I can’t handle his stare, and the back of my neck turns hot. His breath sends chills down my spine.
His hands still aren’t on my waist, which is both a blessing and a curse. I know the minute he touches me, my body will react against my wishes.
Even though his hands aren’t on me, I can still feel his presence. Not once have I felt alone while on the dance floor. Somehow, he interpreted my disdain for touching and worked accordingly, not once making me feel less than, even if my mind did it for him.
Suddenly, he shifts, and his hands ghost my waist, still not touching me but almost like he could read my jealousy and want.
Against my better judgment, I place my hands over his and press them into my sides. He frowns, and I feel my blood drop, but that frown twitches into a smile. The light in his eyes flashes, and even in the strobing lights on the dance floor, I can read him like a book. He’s searching for approval.
