Page 34 of First Verse

using too many words

specifically verbs

before finally realizing

you weren’t really listening

only nodding along

Every time I shift in my chair, phantom fullness pulses between my legs. Two days after Wilder broke my vagina, I still feel him. Every time I wipe. Sneeze. Bend over. Muscles that have no business interfering with my life are sore and cramping. Yesterday I was convinced I was starting my period. But no—just another consequence of the most intense, depraved, earthshaking sex of my life.

“Not hungry, Eva?” asks my dad, his eyes lifting from my untouched waffle and narrowing with concern.

I summon a smile. “Not really. Filled up on fruit.”

“I’ll take that,” Hunter says, snatching my plate. At eighteen and still growing, he’s perpetually starving. He’s already finished off two servings of waffles, bacon, and scrambled eggs.

Mom shakes her head with a fond smile while my uncle Josh chuckles. “I remember that age well.”

The conversation veers in a safe direction—namely, away from me—as they reminisce about keeping my uncle Patrick fed when he was a teenager. I devote myself to my cup of coffee, pretending to listen while trying not to think about how sore I am and ignoring my dad’s periodic, searching glances.

He’s always been the worrier in the family, especially when it comes to me. His overprotectiveness used to piss me off when I was a teenager. Now I’m grateful for it.Mostly.Right now it’s knives sawing on my already frayed nerves.

Unfortunately, Sunday brunch at my parents’ requires an excuse to skip. A worthy one in the realm of sudden hospitalization or amnesia. My mom is militant about the tradition. In the early years, it was chaos with both sets of grandparents and four aunts and uncles every weekend. Now most of my parents’ siblings have families of their own. Uncle Josh and his wife don’t have kids, and since she works most weekends as a trauma nurse, he still comes more often than not. My grandparents are usually fixtures as well, but they travel a lot during the colder months. This month all four of them are on a cruise to Panama.

“Eva.”

My mom’s gentle voice jolts me. I look up, blinking in surprise when I see that Hunter’s gone and Dad and Uncle Josh are clearing the table.

“Sorry. Spaced out.”

My dad opens his mouth, that familiar frown of concern on his face, but my mom gives him alook.He closes his mouth fast. He and my uncle trade a humored glance and head for the kitchen with plates.

Mom rounds the table and smiles down at me. “Come on. I have something for you.”

Whereas my dad is all about frontal assault, Sophie Sullivan is the master of sneak attacks. With her gentle spirit and angelic beauty, she’s a Trojan Horse of life lessons I’m never ready for.

Sighing, I push back from the table and follow her down the hall. She veers into her art studio, a bright, colorful space that’s one of my favorite places on the planet.

Growing up, I spent countless hours curled in the armchair by the window, watching her draw. Sometimes I fell asleep, but mostly I read books, listened to music, and later, played guitar. Most of our difficult conversations have also happened in this room. The Sex talk. The Red Flags and Safety talk. The Why-Your-Best-Friend-Isn’t-Your-Best-Friend-If-She-Kisses-Your-Boyfriend talk.

Leaning against the doorjamb, I cross my arms and school my expression.

“What’s up?” My voice is unconcerned, masking my unhinged inner dialogue.

You’re fine. Everything’s fine. You did not have life-altering, semi-hate sex with Wilder. And he definitely didn’t shred your G-spot with his pierced dick.

A vivid flashback hits me—the tender, fierce expression on his face when he ripped off the condom and came all over my chest, then rubbed his cum into my breasts.

My whole body flushes. Between my legs, a painful pulse makes me wince.

Thankfully, Mom has her back to me as she rummages through a small closet. I take slow, deep breaths until I feel calm again.

“Ah, here it is! I found this in the attic last week and thought you might like to have it.”

She turns around, offering me a small black box, the kind you buy in a craft store for keeping mementos. It’s covered in band stickers.

My face goes numb. “I don’t want that.”

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