Page 124 of Ominous: Part 1
I swallow the tightness in my throat.
Eden keeps staring for long seconds.
Then, startling me, she comes closer, stopping right in front of me.
She extends her hand, keeping one arm crossed over her chest like a shield. “Come on,” she says softly, but not weakly. “Let’s go inside, okay?”
I want to ask her if I did something or said something. I don’t usually. It was just a memory. Unbidden and unwanted, but still. Just a memory. It’s not as if they cripple me. I don’t even remember caring anymore. I don’t remember fear, or pain.
But when I reach for her outstretched hand, my own is trembling.
I grab her fast, like I can hide it, or stop it.
She jerks in my grip, like an instinct, but I just come to my feet, wrap my arm around her hunched shoulders, and lead her inside my room.
When she first stepped inhere, she was transfixed by the lights strung overhead. She asked if I did it. I told her no, my dad did. A gift of sorts, I think. Or a peace offering from a morning fight. One afternoon I came home from practice, and they were up.
Now, though, as we stand in my bathroom, one light on and dimmed, she’s transfixed by her checkered backpack, set on my counter as I brush my teeth. I glance at my reflection, seeing my skin has gotten browner from the sun, and Eden’s lips are redder from the same thing.
But she’s frowning into her bag, a comb in one hand, the other rooting through a small pile of clothes. I spit into my sink, turning on the tap to rinse it away as I set the electric toothbrush beside my toothpaste, glancing at Eden’s sink and grateful I have two, because she’s the type of girl who likes some space.
I don’t dare look in the mirror and see the claw-footed tub behind the open door, or the glass shower adjacent the tub. I might not be able to resist dragging her into one or the other.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her, leaning against the gray marble countertop.
She shakes her head. “I forgot my toothbrush.” She says this like it’s a huge failure. Like she crashed a commercial plane or poisoned a well meant to quench the thirst of small children.
“Okay,” I say, seeing her long, straight lashes as she keeps staring into her bag. I grab my toothbrush without looking away from her and offer it her way. “Use mine.”
She pulls her brows together, snapping her head up like I touched her. “What?” She glances at my toothbrush, impeccably clean, even along the black handle, because I hate when toothpaste gets flecked across it. “I can’t—”
“Shh,” I tell her, stepping closer, so she has to tilt her head back to meet my gaze. “I licked you from my fingers.” I nod toward the toothbrush as her cheeks heat, the alcohol no longer shielding her nervousness. “You can use my toothbrush.”
After a moment, assessing me, as if I’m bluffing—as if I fucking care—she says, “Who else has used this brush?” Her nose wrinkles as her eyes narrow.
“Who the fuck else would have used my toothbrush?”
I see her lips part, a name on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it down at the last minute and instead, asks, “Who else do you let spend the night?”
“No one.” I shrug, dropping my hand and resting the brush on the counter. “Not really. Dominic before, I guess, a few people from a few parties.” I angle my head toward the brush. “But, if you’re really interested in the history of this particular toothbrush, since I got it,no onehas spent the night here aside from my dad. And rest assured, he has his own brush.”
She doesn’t look like she believes me, skepticism in her narrowed eyes, but finally, she swipes the brush from my fingers. “I’ll be out soon.” Then she waits until I walk out and close the door softly behind me. A few seconds later, I hear the hum of my electric toothbrush.
I lean against the closed door, resting my head on it as I close my eyes, smiling.
It was awkward for her,at first.
Her body is pressed up against mine, my arm around her front, tugging her close, my elbow on the bed, chin propped in my hand. Initially, her body was stiff without the alcohol in her system, a distraction from her discomfort. But as the rain has clattered harder, louder against the door of my balcony, she’s relaxed into me.
I wonder if she’s going to fall asleep soon.
We’re at an angle, my body curved against the pillows pushed into the dark wooden headboard behind me. The fan is on, for her, and the white sheets are up over her shoulders, the dark blue comforter pulled down a little.
I try to watch the movie from the TV mounted on my wall across from my bed, but all I can focus on is the pins in her hair, gleaming with every flash of the screen. I want to pull each pin free, one by one.
“Sit up for me, baby,” I whisper against the top of her head.
She glances at me over her shoulder, her lips close to mine. “Why?”
