I dress quickly in the hall before tearing down the stairs two at a time.  I don’t even spare a glance back into the bedroom to see if Jacoby’s awake.  The effort would only waste my time and possibly force a confrontation I do not want to have.

A desperation I haven’t felt in a long time is clawing at me to get out of his house.  There isn’t an explanation for the sudden anxiety.  But I feel like being in his space is suffocating me.  Maybe it’s the knowledge of what we did.  Or the fact he wants to talk about my secret.

Whatever the reason, I’m not hanging around to figure it out.

***

My apartment is blessedly quiet when I arrive back home.  Unfortunately, the silence can’t quiet the tumble of thoughts in my head.  I turn off my phone and head straight to the shower, hoping for a small reprieve.  But when I get there, bare and completely alone with only the cascade of hot water invading, there’s only one thing I want.  No, need.

Reaching around the shower curtain, my fingers fumble with the drawer of my vanity, jerking it open.  The small blade I seek is cool against my fingertips, and I cup the tool in my slippery palm, bringing it inside my quiet sanctuary.

Hot water pounds against my sore muscles as I lower myself to the cold shower floor.  Everything about this scenario is familiar: the steady heat of the shower along my back, the sweet smell of my apricot shampoo, the small rush of adrenaline my body releases as I hold my blade.  But instead of the usual comfort it brings, for the first time in my life it feels wrong.

I feel ashamed.

I feel dirty.

Salty tears mix with the wet droplets on my lips, and I taste them.  I taste my bitter disappointment and my shame.  Over and over my tongue darts out to absorb the hatefulness trying to escape me.  Bringing the tears back inside me as if I’m not strong enough to just let them go.

My right hand shakily grasps the blade as I lower it to my left wrist.  Do it! You’ll feel better soon, I chant to myself.  This is how I deal.  The only way I know how.  Squeezing my eyes tightly shut I press the sharp metal against my flesh.

Then throw it against the shower wall as a ragged scream blisters my throat.

I can’t do it.

I can’t do it.

I can’t.

What happens when the one way to deal, the only way to make yourself feel better, suddenly doesn’t work anymore?

***

I became invisible.

I guess the nature of our “relationship” had one benefit—Jacoby couldn’t force me to talk with him.  He tried.  Oh did he ever, but there was simply no way for him to remain inconspicuous and make me listen when I didn’t want to.  He couldn’t hold me back in class (he tried) or pin me against a wall (he didn’t try) or yell my name down the hall as I powerwalked away, which is exactly what I did.

Several strings of text messages filtered through my inbox.  Curiosity was killing me.  My hands were itching to open those messages.  My soul craved to read his words telling me we need to talk.  Asking me why I left.  Telling me he cares about me.  But I forced myself to ignore them until I could figure out my head.

Without much incident, Tuesday bled into Wednesday.

Wednesday disintegrated into Thursday.

And after a long, quiet night at work, Friday arrived with a bright sunniness that instantly soured my mood.  I wanted dark storm clouds and big, fat droplets of rain to mirror the way my insides felt.  I finally knew what I needed to do.

Hi, Mr. Stephenson.  Uh, it’s me, Tatum Krause.  I know I’ve missed a lot of school lately, but I have something important to do today.  It’s, um, an emergency appointment.  I’ll come to your office as soon as I return to school.  Please don’t report me truant I promise to explain. Okay, um, thanks.  Bye.

T: I need to see you.

J:  Where are you?

T: Meet me at The Evergreen hotel asap.

J: What about school? What’s going on?

T: Call in sick. This is important. Come to the hotel. 

J: Damnit I can’t just skip class! What’s going on?

T: I need you. Find a sub.  Please.

J: OK. I’ll be there. Everything okay??

T: Rm 201…thanks.

 

The hotel room is small and smells musty with an undertone of bleach.  Like no matter how much cleaning occurs, which probably isn’t much, the smell is a permanent feature of the room.  A queen sized bed is pressed up against an old beat up wooden headboard, flanked on each side by outdated, gold colored touch lamps.  The comforter is thin and threadbare, the color of a dark beige.  Navy blue carpet riddled with stains covers the floor.  My guess would be that’s a significant source of the smell.

It’s not much, but the room will do considering the circumstances.  I want to feel on neutral territory.  Inviting him to my apartment felt too revealing, and there was no way I would have driven back to his place after bailing so suddenly and not speaking with him for three days.

I thought I could go on.  Pretend that night never happened.

My heart pumped with the desire to stay in his bed, talk out my problems, unload on someone who seemed to care.  But my mind screamed at me to escape.  My mind fought with the logic that our relationship could never work while my heart wielded the power of my need to stay and feel safe.  In the end, my mind won.

But ultimately, what happened didn’t matter.  When I got back home, something had changed.  Something I had found my strength in for so long was broken.  He’d discovered my deepest secret, and in doing so, the blade was no longer the remedy it once was.  I’d lost the control I’d craved.  I’d lost the power to utilize pain as an escape.

It’d taken me three days.  Three long, lonely days spent huddled in my apartment to come to a decision.  That maybe my vices aren’t what they once were.  That maybe I’ve been wrong all this time to stay locked inside of myself.  That maybe Jacoby can be the one to set me free.

Jacoby lit an inferno inside of me the night we’d made love in his bed.  I might have kept my heart locked inside a cage, but even steel has a melting point.

The only question remaining is: do we have the ability to fuel the flames?

A loud knock sounds from the door, and I’m on my feet rushing to the source before I’ve told my mind to do so.  Yanking the door open, I come face to face with a freshly showered Jacoby, hair damp and curling along the edges.  He smells woodsy with an underlying hint of sweetness, and it makes my mouth water.

I drop my eyes lower taking in the fitted button down navy striped shirt with cuffs rolled to his elbows, to his hands tucked casually in the pockets of his faded dark blue jeans.  He looks better than I remembered, but something feels off.

Trailing my eyes back up, I notice the tense line of his shoulders, the subtle tick in his jaw.  His eyes are slightly narrowed, a light crinkling of lines near the corners that belie the seemingly casualness of his posture.

Adrenaline spikes through my gut.  In all the scenarios I played through my head this morning, I never imagined Jacoby would be pissed.  Frustrated, sure.  Disappointed, most likely.

But he’s standing in the doorway looking as if he steps inside, he’ll snap.  And I’m directly in the firing range.

Swallowing the thick sticky feeling in my throat, I square my shoulders and take the reins before we’re stuck staring at each other all day.

“You came,” I state, thankful my voice doesn’t sound all breathy and relieved, as though I didn’t actually believe he’d come.  Truthfully, a part of me didn’t.

Jacoby nods.  “You said you needed me.”  He doesn’t continue, leaving me to confirm or continue the line of conversation without his help.  Stepping back, I pull the door further open, and Jacoby takes the silent hint, entering the room.  As I quietly close the door, I take a deep breath and remind myself that this is my move.  I need him, not the other way around, so it’s time to convince him.