Talent smacks my ass as I walk past him. “Get the fuck in there.”
I hover inside close enough to see his space, but not close enough to intrude. He has framed photos here and there, but the faces are unclear from my spot by the door. The television is on, but I can’t see what’s on or hear anything beyond muffled dialogue. Talent’s laptop is open on a table in front of the navy-blue couch in the living area, but I can’t make out what’s on the screen.
Talent’s life is one-dimensional from here. If I take another step inside, the people in the frames will have faces I may or may not be able to put names to, and I’ll know what he likes to watch on television and search for on his computer. His life will have color beyond white walls and dark furniture. I’ll touch fabrics, see patterns, and I’ll know if he dusts his bookshelves regularly.
Talent stands directly behind me. He doesn’t touch me, but he’s close enough that I can sense the warmth from his skin near mine.
“What are you afraid of, Lydia?” he whispers. Talent leans forward and buries his nose in my hair, inhaling before his lips press the softest kiss to the top of my head. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I’m a lot of things—apathetic, disappointed, mighty, resilient—but the last time I was afraid of anything was the day Cricket died.
Talent doesn’t scare me.
He excites me.
I’m quick to forget who I am when I was just so sure.
It pains me to admit, “I don’t know how to be around you. How do I fit in your life?”
Persistence hides his face in the curve of my neck and secures his arms around me, drawing the back of my body flush against the front of his. I feel Talent’s heartbeat, as if destiny itself taps against my shoulder. Now watch this, it says as the slopes, bends, and curves of our bodies connect like puzzle pieces to create an illustration that wasn’t clear before we were joined.
“We fit perfectly,” Talent says with patient awe. “I knew all along, Lydia. I knew when you were only a name on my schedule. When you walked into my office, I knew it. But when I was inside of you that first time, I felt it. Nothing has been the same for me since.”
Turning in his arms, our pieces hesitantly come apart to change position—but the image doesn’t shift when we rejoin, and I’m only staring at the surface of the bigger picture: welcome home, Lydia Montgomery—daughter of a stripper, runaway, and slut.
I don’t cry until he kisses me and a lifetime of bearing floods to the surface. I’m wearing thin. I feel translucent in this truthful light. How is it possible to feel so much and not shatter into a million little pieces? How can I fit it all inside of me at once? The only way is to let some of it go before it kills me, and I don’t choose to let any part of Talent go yet. He’s going to stay until he realizes I’ve stolen his soul.
Talent lifts me off my feet, and I wrap my legs around his waist. The bleached-blue sky shining through the wall-sized windows brightens every corner of Talent’s apartment, but his dark bedroom is a relief from the brilliance I’m not ready to show my face in.
He closes the door without turning away and sets me down. Talent steps forward, and I step back in an ageless romantic dance. He hooks his fingers under the hem of my shirt and lifts it over my head, dropping it to the abyss under our feet. First, only the shape of his body is visible in the dark—where I still yearn for him the most—and then his hands, his lips, and his metal stare break through obscurity.
The backs of my legs collide with his bed. Talent captures me in his arms, so I don’t have to fall to the mattress alone. He cradles me to his chest and crawls to the center of the bed before laying me out like a blooming rose. His shoes hit the floor with a thump before he kneels between my legs and lifts each one of my ankles to rid me of mine.
He tosses my shoes over his shoulder, shattering something made of glass along the wall. I lean back on my elbows, and he curves his body around mine. Our faces are centimeters apart,