Page 35 of My Lovely Tragedy
CHAPTERTEN
TOBIAS
My arm remains stretchedfor an endless amount of time, eyes locked unseeing on the space Brooklyn occupied, long since vacant but still tainted with his sorrowful presence.
He lingers in the air, all around me. In me.
It’s not until I hear the shower that I pull myself away, fingers cold and numb, tingling with pins and needles at my side.
I turn to face the minor act of destruction he caused. His phone is broken beyond repair, which I believe was the point. I’m not sure as towhyjust yet, but inferring from his conversation earlier and the indignation he’s smelled of for the last two hours, I’d say it has something to do with that.
But why would he want to destroy his only means of communication with his family? Impulsivity doesn’t leave much room for thinking.
Furthermore, I do own a phone myself, so maybe he assumes…
I push my glasses up with the back of my hand as I pick up his phone and toss it into the trash, shoving all wayward thoughts aside. I then proceed to clean up every shard of glass I can, spraying and clearing the dust, vacuuming the floor of any particles.
Cleaning makes the questions fade into a dull roar in the back of my mind, and by the time I have finished, the shower has shut off, and the cabin is filled with pregnant silence once again.
Usually, silence is what I prefer, but with Brooklyn’s volatile emotions, I’m finding it harder to withstand the shift in tone. From calm and relaxed and enjoying himself, to outraged and explosive, leaving the quiet that remains nearly impossible to bear.
My legs nearly take me to the bathroom of their own volition before I have to physically stop myself from invading his space. I know that’s not what he needs right now, but the urge is overwhelming, and I do not know what to do with such a strong emotion.
I’ve never experienced feelings so viscerally—so potent and all-consuming.
Brooklyn wears every part of him on his sleeve—whether he knows it or not—and experiencing that has changed so many things I thought I knew in such a short amount of time.
And bringing that part of him to life on paper, attempting—through my own mind—to delve into his… It has forced me to discover things aboutmyself,and it’s truly riveting that one person can hold such power over another.
Over me.
The click of the bathroom door opening draws my attention. Brooklyn’s bare feet slap across the floor, slow and hesitant. The second he comes into view, my heart, once beating slow and steady, flips into a summersault.
A fluffy gray towel hangs low on his hips, outlining the dip on either side of his pelvis, a long, but subtle line veering down into a V shape. A light dusting of golden hair dampened by water trails down the center of his abdomen where it disappears beneath the cotton.
His chest is bare of hair, pectorals perfectly curved with small, pink nipples. His trapezius muscles are thick and dominant across his neck and shoulders—both covered by dripping tendrils of golden hair.
My lungs scream for oxygen, chest aching and throbbing. Temples pulsating.
I don’t feel any of it.
Brooklyn’s expression is demure, eyes downcast, hands curled into fists at his sides. His full lips are downturned into an overpronounced frown.
“Can I please borrow some clothes?” he asks, voice scratchy from his screams and cries.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard a lovelier sound.
“Of course. You needn’t ask.” My tongue traces the roughened edge of my bottom lip. Brooklyn’s eyes roam upward, over my body from feet to chest before they scan the room. When he notices his mess is now cleaned, his face flushes a wonderful rose color, highlighted by the warmth of his shower.
“You mustn’t worry about it. Go on up and get changed. Pick whatever you’d like. I’ll get started on lunch.”
He nods stiffly but doesn’t move. I take that as a sign that he wants to walk up the ladder without my eyes on him, so in an attempt to make him more comfortable, I veer into the kitchen and start pulling ingredients out to make a couple of sandwiches.
It’s past lunch, but still too early to start dinner, so I think something light to tide us over will suffice.
By the time I hear Brooklyn descend the ladder, both sandwiches have been assembled and placed in their proper spots—Brooklyn’s in front of where he always sits, and mine just to his right. Close enough to smell his smokey cinnamon scent—enhanced by his freshly showered skin—but far enough I don’t run the risk of touching him accidentally—or on purpose.
We eat in a silence that is not comfortable, but it’s not intolerable either.
