Page 92 of Play Dirty
Fall came and went.
Now, the snow begins to fall in soft, endless sheets, dusting the rooftops and blanketing the campus. Everyone is getting ready for the holidays, stringing lights and clinging to warmth, and I’m here — finishing the last box of June’s things.
It’s taken me a while.
Longer than it should have. I’d start, then stop. Open up the drawers and then fall apart over a half-used lip balm or a crumpled movie ticket. Every piece of her was a landmine. A life interrupted, cut short by an asshole with a God complex. A voice I’ll never hear again.
Today, though, I finally finished.
With each sweater folded, each book packed away, it feels like I’m closing the door on a version of her that only exists in my memory. I press the cardboard flaps closed and tape them down. The sound rips through the stillness like a scream. I sit back on my heels, my hands trembling. My body aches in places I didn’t know it could hurt. I lost more than June this fall; I lost my father, or at least the version I believed him to be.
Not by death but by choice. My choice.
He resigned as I asked and stays far away from Nico. I’ve made sure of that. That night, my dad not only lost his spot as sponsor, but the lookon his face told me he no longer recognized his little girl anymore.
Good.
She died too.
As for the only other girl I loved like a sister, she’s gone too. After our fight, Tatiana withdrew from class and finished the semester elsewhere. This semester has been nothing but emotional damage.
I lost a lot, but I also gained a lot. I gained love.
I look at the only thing I didn’t pack away. One of the alien romances that she used to read, that I’ll keep as a reminder of my alien peen-loving friend. The guilt sometimes threatens to consume me, but what is grief if not love just persevering? I sit there in silence, watching the snow accumulate on the windowpane, waiting for something– anything to make this hurt less. But the truth is, it won’t. And maybe it shouldn’t.
My phone buzzes behind me.
A message.
Just one line.
Anonymous
Secrets don’t stay buried for long.
My breath hitches.
I pick up my phone with trembling fingers and stare at it, rereading it over and over. My pulse thunders. There’s media attached, and I recognize it immediately. The night of my first hunt.
I hesitate, then press play. What I hear next makes my blood run cold. Not because of what Nico did, but rather what was done to him. I thought I'd seen the worst of what they did to him, but I was wrong. The sound of the door opening causes me to almost drop the phone as I lock the screen.
“The car is ready.” Nico's voice calms my nerves as I turn to look at him. He stops, “You okay?”
I nod, hating that once again I'm lying. We are liars after all, that much might never change. But I can live with that, as long as we are honest about our love. “Let’s go, babe. My grandma is waiting.”
“I’m ready.”
Nico’s grandma, Ms. Carmen, smiles as she looks at Erikson, showing Nico the new trick he learned. The house smells like garlic and something sweet that I can’t quite place. I watch as Ms. Carmen continues with her preparations, moving with grace as she places food on the table. Erikson smiles at his brother when he tries to steal a homemade empanada. I smile, admiring the spread before me, everything made from scratch— her way of welcoming their family.
We haven’t made things official; it’s not like we care about the title. We are just figuring it out, but it’s been nice to have this— a new found family when mine has been ripped apart due to my father’s secrets. Nico makes it a priority to come visit every Sunday and every break. This time, Zayden and Thiago join us.
I smile as Thiago cracks a joke in Spanish that makes Zayden choke on his water. I only understand some of the words, but overall don’t understand the context. I’m sure by the way Nico smirks and how he's shaking his head, it’s probably a pervy one. That’s Thiago for you, always thinking with the head between his legs rather than the one on his shoulders.
But I catch it, the soft edge of his eyes when I look at them. He’s home here. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, I don’t feel like I'm intruding.
I feel safe… held… loved.
I reach beneath the table, and Nico’s hand is already there. Our eyes lock as his calloused fingers wrap around mine, grounding me like roots to soil. We don’t speak.
