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I shake my head as I swallow my pride and close my eyes.
He is not Matthew.
He is not Matthew.
“It’s fine.” The words claw at my skin and catch in my throat. “But if you hurt me again Josh, if you ever touch me like that again, we’re done. Whatever we are, it will be over.”
He nods, a sober expression over his face, and he steps forwards. This time as he reaches out to me I let him touch me; I let his fingers brush over my cheeks as he leans in and kisses me softly. I let him kiss away my shame as the door swings open behind us and Alex and Max barrel out of the bar.
Max:Idon’tlikeit Mik.
I stare at the words burned into my screen for what feels like a lifetime as Josh chops onions and peppers and hums to himself in the kitchen.I had seen the look Max had given me when I told him it was fine, I had felt the weight of his worry on my shoulders as if it were a real burden to bear, and I hated it. I hated seeing his pity.
I shut off my phone completely and curl up on the couch.
Josh’s place is the antithesis to my own. Decluttered and minimalist, it feels like he hardly lives here at all - like the shell of a home that desperately needs some warmth. The walls, all a stark white, have no personal photos, but a splash and pool of red hangs above a large fireplace and I stare at it as classical music swims through the space around me.It’s not the kind of home I’d picture for a writer. There are no books and no cozy corners. Everything in here has a place and a purpose. Everything in here has been chosen for style.
My head hurts as I look around, and I can feel the throb of alcohol leaving its fingerprints behind as I long for sleep.
I crawl off of the small couch and walk around the empty space. His coffee table is empty and I run my fingers over the slick, white surface.
I pad to the kitchen, my arms wrapped around myself, and lean against the door. Josh moves with precision, the knife slicing even strips of peppers as he focuses solely on the task at hand, and I feel my mind slipping away from me.
Four Years Ago
Everysliceofmyknife is clean and precise and I wait for his comment. The bottle sits empty beside me and I wince as I catch the scent of it on the breath that caresses my shoulder.
His fingers brush the back of my neck, skimming the scabbed stitches from three days ago, and I freeze.
“Don’t do that.” His voice is a broken whisper. “Please, don’t do that.”
I take a deep breath and will my hands to move as his lips press into my neck and his hands grip my waist.
“I’m making lasagne.” I keep my voice even and resume slicing onions to mix in with the meat. “Is that okay?”
Matthew buries his face in the crook of my neck.
“I’m sorry, Mik.” He moves his hand down my arm and takes the knife from me, placing it on the counter. His fingers entwine with my own as he kisses my neck once more, moving to my jaw as he waits for me to respond. “I love you, so much.”
I turn my face, the ghost of his fingers still searing beneath the skin of my throat, and let him kiss me.
I let his fingers dance over my wounds as he pulls me away from the counter and over to the table.
I let his hands grip my waist as he lifts me and lays me before him.
I let him push my skirt up as he kisses apologies into my flesh and sinks his sorrow into me.
I let him erase his pain in connection as I numb myself.
I give him grace and forgiveness and acceptance where he has given me bruises.
Present
“Mikaela?” Josh tilts his head as he stares at me and I crawl back to reality. “Is that alright?”
“I’m sorry. What?”
“I said I’m making lasagne. Is that okay?”
