Page 87 of Faux Real
I grin. “Beautiful? Yeah?”
He clears his throat. “I am not sayingyouare beautiful; I am sayingbutterfliesare beautiful.”
“Mhmm,” I hum, pursing my lips. “Sure.”
He frowns. “And some moths too... And bees... Dragonflies... All insects really.”
“Wow,” I muse, tilting my head. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Globe Theatre, we have an entomologist in our midst.”
“What can I say? I’m a bug guy.” He wiggles his fingers in my face, a devious look in his eyes. “A fan of all the creepy crawlies.” He takes a step toward me. “Are you ticklish, Kennedy? Hmm?”
“Oliver,” I state, putting a firm hand on his chest as I gently push him back toward the shower stalls. “Don’t.”
“Oh, you totally are!” he says with a husky laugh. “Where’s your danger spot? Armpits?” He tries to tickle me, and I slap his hand away. “Ouch! So fucking violent!”
“Oliver?” I ask as we stop in front of the showers. Here goes nothing.
“Yes, love?” he coos, eyes glazing over. “What is it?”
“Sorry about this,” I state, shoving him into the stall and immediately turning on the cold water. The nozzle spurts, drenching Oliver in a matter of seconds as he curses every profanity known to man. Oops. He seems mad. I take a step back before adding, “You’ll thank me in a few years, I promise.”
“Oh, I don’t think so—” Oliver lurches forward, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the freezing shower, my back slamming against the cold, wet tile as he hovers above me.
“Ollie!” I shriek, water dripping into my eyes as his grip tightens around my arms. “What the fuck?”
“Mmm,” Ollie hums, damp strands of hair sticking to his face, covering his grey eyes that are intently glued to mine.
“Wha—” I begin to say but letters and words and sentences seem like an impossible concept for my brain to grasp under his gaze. “Wh—”
“You know—” he rasps, inching closer to me, so close that we’re breathing the same air. Air, that right now, feels very hot and muggy, and it’s making it hard to breathe, to stand, to think. He lifts his hand slowly up to my cheek, his gaze flitting across my face. “You really are a butterfly.”
“What—” My chest rises and the water streaming down our bodies doesn’t feel so cold anymore. “What are you doing?”
Whatishe doing? He’s too close. Way too close. I don’t like it. I don’t. I really don’t. I can’t. It’s a game to him. A stupid silly game. He’s drunk. He’s not thinking clearly. He’s not in control of his actions. He can’t be.
Oh, but I want it to be real.
“Tell me to stop,” Oliver breathes, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “Say it.”
“Ol—” I stammer, closing my eyes as his thumb strokes the apples of my cheek.
“Tell me to stop, Kennedy,” he whispers, his breath blowing against my lips. Oh God, my lips. Behave. Please. “Say the word and I’ll stop.”
“You’re drunk,” I manage, unable to open my eyes; if I do, it’ll go away. “You’re drunk, Ollie.”
“No, I’m not,” he says, tone suddenly serious, solemn,raw.
I shake my head. “Yes, you are.”
“No. Kennedy. I’m not,” he says, caressing the underside of my chin, tilting it up, my eyes springing open because I know what he wants. What I want. What’s going to happen. He swallows, peering down at me with eyes that carry the burden of all the ships swallowed by the sea. So vast, so blue, so deep, and yet so sad. “Truthfully. I’ve never felt more sober.”
And despite consuming zero alcohol,Ifeel wasted, plastered, drunk out of my mind.
“We should go,” I swallow, reaching for the nozzle and turning off the shower. Back to reality. Back to what’s real. What’s normal. What’s not going to hurt me. “You should sleep before our— our exams.”
“What are you so afraid of?” he asks, tone low, almost defeated. “Tell me.”
“Same thing you are,” I reply mindlessly, willing my legs to move, to run, toescape.
