Page 40 of Pretty Obsessed

We understood each other. Our trauma was so similar sometimes looking at him was like looking at where I'd be had I not gone straightedge.

He scooted closer and laid his head on my shoulder. "I came in to sleep but didn't want to wake you with all my tossing and turning."

"If you need to stay close, you can. Even if you wake me up." I leaned my head against his. "It's worth it to get some sleep in you."

"Thank you." He closed his eyes.

"Did he say anything else?"

"That he didn't mind if I went to bed with you. I like him."

"Me too, but I didn't get his number."

"What?" Iris sat up, brow pulling into a frown.

"I didn't think to. I didn't think he'd just run out in the morning."

"We are back to stalking square one! You need to get better at this honestly." He shook his head, laughing again.

"Who would have thought I'd find the one person harder to find than myself?"

"And you'd be the one obsessed."

I didn't deny it. “And I’m no better off than before.”

"Do you think anyone will tell you where he is? I don't think any of our people would give one of us up."

"I can't leave it. I can't go on tour for months and leave this."

"Then do it."

"I have to."

Eight

Emory Ker

It was a long few hours of getting into my routine. I picked up my phone a hundred times and put it down every time the no signal sign flashed in my face. The first step in breaking myself from tech. It was the same every time I got on a plane. Like our bodies grew so used to the constant need for it.

I flipped through songs and made playlists, all while my document sat open on a blank page. I put my hands on the keyboard and abruptly stood, backing away from the desk. I wasn’t ready to let go of the things I’d built up in my soul. Not yet. I did chores I didn’t need to do and finally, before sunset, I hiked through the snow to the little lake my father used to let me swim in when my complaining about the heat got unbearable. It was frozen now, like my father’s ashes spread over these mountains, like my heart. I wished all the things I felt were ice, too. It might be easier to finish a book if I could freeze what weighed on my soul.

None of that was true, no matter how much I wanted it to be. I was hesitant to give my feelings over to this book. I’d let them build up, putting it off for months. And for what?

Because I wasn’t ready to let go of this place, or my dad? I didn’t want to feel any of those things, so I buried them again.

I made myself sit in front of my laptop when I got back to the cabin, flushed and warm from the exercise. But my brain didn’t want to focus on fiction. It wanted to spend hours in memories of River.

Writing first, River after. I’d write a thousand words, then jack off thinking about the particular way he shoved me into the bed as he came.

Work and then rewards, dammit.

I was making some progress. Glad I’d finally faced the cabin. It hadn’t been as bad as I’d thought it would be. I set my laptop aside to make more coffee. I’d been at it for hours and didn’t want to lose the groove I’d found. I could easily sleep all day tomorrow. Time didn’t much matter when I was here. I kept writer’s hours.

I put the kettle on the stove and grabbed the matches. The stove hated me. Had since I was a kid. My dad could have lit it in a minute, but I’d ended up filling the place with gas and nearly passing out more than once.

“Please just let me have some coffee,” I muttered, not sure if I was talking to my dad or God or myself.

I twisted the nob and struck a match and there was a knock at the door. I dropped the match and stumbled as it hit my foot. I grabbed at the gas, turning it off before flinging myself around to stare at the door.

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