Page 101 of Darcy
As much as it’s killing me, I don’t pry. I keep my breathing even, slip my glasses off, and slide them onto the nightstand. His skin brushes against mine beneath the sheets, and I feel the subtle raised bumps along his forearms.
My mind is racing, trying to figure it out. They aren’t in neat and even lines like Dodger’s. Arlo’s scars are random and jagged.
He sighs beneath me. “You saw.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.” It’s clear he’s uncomfortable about them. “The fact that you’ve suffered doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
He turns, pressing a kiss to my forehead and embracing me until I’m pressed against his chest.
“On her sober days, my mom used to say God put a little more of Himself into artists,” Arlo says. “That’s why we feel the weight of the world so deeply. It must be true, because I’ve never met an artist who hasn’t struggled with their mental health, but it makes me wonder; is God the same way?”
I bite back my automatic urge to shut him down. After what happened with my parents, I canneverput my trust in any religion. But if Arlo needs that faith to help him navigate life, then I’m not about to argue. Especially when he’s vulnerable.
In my experience, there’s no great plan to this messy business called living, but that doesn’t mean I see no value in hope and morality. I’ve seen how people cling to religion when everything else has fallen apart, and sometimes their faith is powerful enough to get them through.
“When I was using heavily,” he says finally, when it’s clear I won’t answer his question. “I got these tactile hallucinations—they called it formication—where it felt like bugs were crawling under my skin. It was some freaky shit. I tried to dig them out, and in the process, I fucked up my arms.”
“It must have been terrifying,” I agree, quietly.
Arlo leans down and kisses me hesitantly. “There were days when I was working on getting clean when I didn’t want to get out of bed. Do you know what made me?”
I snuggle closer. “What?”
“You. I lived for our game time. The others won’t tell you, but when things were really bad, playing Runes with you was the only time that Prophet and Slate were civil to one another. You made it feel like I had my friends back.”
This time, I move to kiss him.
He doesn’t let me, stopping me with a finger to my lips. “I love you, Darcy. I’ve loved you since we first heard you sassing us over voice chat, and I’ll love you until I die.”
My heart gives a soft thump, then melts. “I love you too.”
Thirty-Four
Prophet
The doorbell rings, and my hands—currently wrapped in Mama’s bright pink rubber gloves—freeze in the hot water of the sink.
“Can you get that, baby?” she asks, from the other side of the kitchen. “I’m busy with the salad.”
She’s using the tone. The one that means trouble.
Silently wondering what she’s up to, I shake off the water and plod through the house to the front door. Knowing Mama, I’m sure half the neighbourhood is waiting on the doorstep—at least that would explain why there’s four times as much food as we normally have. She likes to do shit like this, pulling in people I knew from childhood because she thinks my lifestyle leaves me ungrounded.
But when I swing open the door, it’s not neighbours, but the band on the front step.
“Nice gloves.” Dodger snickers, raising his phone to snap a picture.
Shit. I rip the pink monstrosities off my hands with a scowl that promises death should he not delete that immediately.
“Oh, good. You’re here,” Mama says, sneaking up behind me before I can slam the door in their faces. “Did you bring her like I told you to?”
Slate is grinning, which I realise far too late, because when he steps aside, Darcy is there. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and she’s staring at her shoes like my mom’s rainbow doormat is the most interesting thing she’s seen all week.
“Here she is, Mama P,” Dodger says, giving my mom his most innocent smile.
“Oh, sugar, you never told me how gorgeous she was!”
Then, in a scene plucked straight from my nightmares, Mama reaches out and catches Darcy’s wrist, pulling her into the house.
