Page 86 of Lunar Diamonds
“Lay down. Rest.”
I expected a back and forth about it being my bed and he should take the sofa. However, Riley shuffled toward it, climbed on, and curled himself into a ball.
Minutes later, he slept soundly. No snoring, just slow and gentle breaths befitting him. Although I’d known him less than a day, I’d witnessed his kindness, seen the light he shone on the world.
You’ll be a great sacred witch,I thought at him.
I threw myself into the map drawing, doing my best to ignore the longing in my chest.
I’d like to curl up there with you…
He’d hate that.
Anyone in their right mind would hate sharing space with the likes of me…
Chapter 23
RILEY
Iwoke up to an empty bedroom, sunlight pouring through the balcony doors.
“Drake?”
No answer. No sounds.
With a big stretch, I got off the bed and headed back to my room. Outside my door were a couple of suitcases filled with my clothes, toiletries, and some books.
Yay! All the necessities.
I dragged them inside, my mood as bright as the sunshine painting the terracotta carpet.
Last night had been lovely. Sweet frosting on a cupcake, a welcome distraction. I’m glad things went the way they did, circumventing the hate train. Drake was a nice guy wreathed in mystery. But good. I could tell. He got some green flags flying.
Maybe the next ten years wouldn’t be so bad. Unless, of course, it was all an act and an anvil loomed in the heavens, about to crash-land on my foolish judge of character.
To hell with negativity.
After a shower, I sorted through my clothes, slipping on underwear, a pair of pale blue jeans, a green jumper, and checked myself out in the mirror.
Not good enough. The red tee would be better.
Nope. Too red, washing me out. What about the white polo? Nah, it didn’t suit my face today. Drew attention to the marrow-like structure of my head everyone told me I didn’t have, but I saw it every time I looked in the mirror.
How the hell would a white polo do that to a head?
Sometimes my reflection disgusted me, my body dysmorphia sliding its tentacles around my sparkle. Crushing, crushing, crushing.
Reason didn’t matter as I skirted the edges of a spiral into crippling self-loathing—rare but always possible. It’d been a while since the last one.
“You need to stop!” I scolded myself, whipping off a yellow jumper.
I sat down, opened my left hand, and drew a circle on my palm. The tickling motion calmed my breathing, rationality quickly following.
I’d always be indebted to Dr. Louis for the technique. It got me through the painful days of my eating disorder, always there to carry me across those choppy seas. It kept the monster small.
So did karaoke.
Ten minutes later, in a better headspace, I put the green jumper back on and fixed my hair, then smiled at my reflection. There, all better.
