Page 100 of Unloved

Slowly climbing the steps with the added weight of a six-three muscled hockey boy is difficult, but I manage guiding us into his bedroom—even with the distraction of his puffs of breath on my neck, where he’s leaned his head.

He rests heavily on me, his body glowing under the soft lamplight in his messy room. It’s organized chaos; I can recognize it now. As soon as I turn to close the door behind us, he slides onto his back on the bed.

“Good night.” He smiles. It’s so boyish and sleepy I can’t help the starry-eyed look that comes over my face.

“Not so fast, Matty,” I chide, shaking his arms as I pull at his hand until he props back up.

“I want to sleep. Don’t you wanna sleep with me, Dorothy?” The huff beneath my breath must come out a little louder, because his mouth quirks and he squeezes my hand in his lightly. “Or do you like princess more?”

“C’mon.” I pull at him again. “You’re not sleeping in this green body paint. We need to get you into the shower.”

“And you’ll wash me?”

“If it gets you in there? Sure.”

His smile is breathtaking, and suddenly every ounce of energythat had seemingly left him is back in full force. He’s up and nearly sprinting to his en suite bathroom.

The shower is small, a tight square that we both definitely won’t fit into. So I get him to sit on the lid of the toilet as I turn on the water to a soothing warm spray.

Hunting through his drawers and cabinets, I find a container of baby wipes, hidden behind a messy jumble of unused products and a tower of multicolored towels.

I grab the thickest one, setting the plush material atop the limited counter space. Taking two of the wipes and quietly instructing Matt to close his eyes, I remove his mask and wipe away the paint on his handsome face. His skin reddens slightly with the motions, but he relaxes, breaths growing heavy and deep.

Reaching for a washcloth to soak under the warm spray, I hum a Cigarettes After Sex song lightly under my breath.

Continuing to his neck, I rub off the fading green body paint, careful to move his chain and make sure it’s clean, even the intricate pendant—a small, delicate carving of two winged figures embracing. I inspect it further now, able to see it more closely than I ever have. It’s a carving of something I recognize, a famous depiction of Psyche and Cupid. I want to ask him about it, but his eyes are nearly closed. Is he already sleeping?

Despite the warmth of the cloth, gooseflesh ripples across his exposed skin. I raise the towel to gently wipe his face.

“Do you like him ’cause he’s smarter than me?”

His voice is so small that for a moment I’m convinced he didn’t speak. That it was some whisper of my imagination.

My hand pauses, hovering over his cheek as I flick my eyes to meet his gaze—but his eyes are downcast, fingers playing with the hem of my too-short skirt.

“Who?” I ask after clearing my throat.

“Donaldson. You dated him so long. Is it because he’s smart?”

Both of his hands are distracting me, one palm warm against the back of my thigh like he’s trying to keep me here between his spread legs. The fingers of his other hand twirl patterns from the high cut of my stockings, playing with the fabric and my bare skin between the lace and my skirt.

But his voice isn’t the flirty or humorous Matt Fredderic. He isn’t hiding the insecurity in a joke.

“Matt,” I say, but my voice sticks. “We are broken up. For good. And he’s not that smart, I promise. In fact, I think you’re smarter in a lot of ways.”

He peeks up at me, a few speckles of green looking like freckles under his eyes, and a beautiful smile spreads across his full lips.

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes playfully. “I wish I was smart like you. You’re amazing.”

My heart squeezes tightly before thumping hard like it’s aching to reach for him as much as my arms are.

“You’reamazing, Matt,” I whisper, wiping away the lingering green at his hairline. His face is clean now, but I keep sweeping in gentle, soothing motions over his skin. “You’re so smart and creative and funny. You’re amazing.”

He sighs, and as his breath flutters against my fingers, I realize I might as well be tracing his lips.

“I want to kiss you again so bad,” he huffs, but shakes his head. “But I promised ‘just friends.’?”

I want to kiss you, too.

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