“Too late.” I lean toward his trembling lips. “You’re stuck.” He lets me kiss him. “I’d rather be miserable loving you, than happy with anyone else.”
He kind of devours me at that point. Good thing Mom keeps the kitchen floor so clean because we don’t make it to the couch. We sink down, roll around, get lost in lips like we did back in Lausanne during that concert.
I sit up and squirm out of my hoodie so I’ve just got a tank left on. I skipped the bra today. He stares—then pulls me back down beside him. I meet his lips, wrap my legs around him. He kisses me back, then chews on my bare shoulder, smoothes his hands across my back. His lips slide to my neck, down my throat. He presses his face on my chest. I’m dying for his skin. I need to get my lips on his body. I unzip his sweatshirt, go for his T-shirt.
He grabs my wrists. “Don’t do that.”
I fight to get my hands free. He distracts me, kissing my lips again. I stop fighting him. He relaxes his grip but doesn’t let go. We’re locked together. I roll onto my back, bring him along so he’s on top. I stretch my arms, with his still attached, up over my head, and go crazy kissing him. He lets go of my wrists, runs his hands down my arms—
I grab the back of his T-shirt, fast, yank hard.
He wrenches free, pushes away from me. “Damn it, Beth.” He pulls his shirt back down, but I see the Band-Aid on his stomach—in the same place it was in Lausanne. “I said don’t.”
I lay on the floor stunned. Ice-cold misery flows through me, twisting the fiery passion that throbs me into stark pain.
Damn it, Beth.
Damn it, Beth.
Damn it, Beth.
Then Derek is back on me, but he’s not the same person now. His kisses are too deep, out of control. He presses his body against mine, too hard, jamming me into the unyielding tile floor. I go nuts, try to fight him off. He fights back—overpowers me.
I yell, “You’re hurting me, Derek! ”
He groans and rolls on his side. “Damn it, Beth. I don’t want to hurt you.” He grabs his hair and kind of chokes. “I don’t want to hurt you, but—”
I scramble to my feet and gather up my sweatshirt. I hurry to the far side of the room, turn, holding my sweatshirt up like a shield. My other arm is out, hand raised to ward him off. I’m trembling, terrified. Damn it, Beth. Damn it, Beth. That’s all I can hear. He’s saying something else, but it doesn’t get through.
Isn’t this exactly what I want? What I’ve dreamed of? What I’ve begged him for? Why am I flipping out? I want the heat to surge again, but it’s frozen into a dagger, cutting me inside. “Go away, Derek.”
“Damn it, Beth. We can’t leave it like this.” He starts to cough.
I run up the stairs to my room, lock the door, press against it. I brace for him to follow and pound on it, knowing I’ll let him in, remembering I love him, reassuring myself I want this. He’ll be gentle. He’ll be sweet. He won’t hurt me.
He’ll tell me everything after this. We’ll share everything after this.
I wait and wait.
No steps on the stairs.
No gentle knock.
No voice whispering that he loves me, he wants me, he needs me.
Only the creak of the kitchen door and the brutal sound of his motorcycle tearing open the silence of the night.
chapter 27
TREATMENT?
I hate my mother for telling me all that crap about my father.
I hate him for calling me damn ugly.
I hate Derek.
I hate music.
I hate singing.
I hate pasta.
I hate Lausanne and Lake Geneva and stone benches.
I hate Scott.
I especially hate AP econ.
I fall asleep before I finish the list—before I come to the only person I really hate. This morning I stare at her in the mirror and see the truth.
It messes you up. Derek’s famous advice about sex. We didn’t even manage to do it, and we’re utterly messed up. I’m massively messed up.
And Derek? What about Derek? Crap, he’s messed up, too. Why would he curse me out over his T-shirt? Does he really never want to do it with me? Am I that gross after all? I think back through it all, over and over and over.
Was it that Band-Aid on his stomach exactly where it was in Lausanne that made him angry? It’s so not a mosquito bite. Could it be a scar? Why the Band-Aid then? Is it a needle mark he doesn’t want me to see? What kind of scary drugs do you inject into your stomach? Over and over, exactly in the same place?
The whole thing is so, so disturbing. I don’t even know how to feel anymore. What I wouldn’t give to peek under that little flesh-colored vinyl strip.
When I see Scott at school, I break my date to study with him.
“He won’t let you?”
“I’m not being fair to you. I’m with Derek. Nothing is going to change that.”
Scott closes his locker with a clang, steps so close I can smell his citrus cologne, and whispers, “We’ll see.”
The rest of the day, he’s funny, cute, friendly Scott again. He brings his econ notes to lunch and goes over the stuff in Chapter Six with me. In choir he can’t get his tenor part. He scoots his chair up against mine and leans over so we’re almost cheek to cheek—so he can hear me sing his part better.
“Why don’t you hate me?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Masochist.”
I laugh. “Thank you, Prince Charming.”
“Any time, Beauty.”
Here he is saving me again. I should love him. I really should. I wouldn’t have made it through the day if not for him.
As I drive down to choir, all I can think about is that Band-Aid on Derek’s stomach. Guys don’t use Band-Aids. If it was a cut or a mosquito bite, why would he care if I saw it? Why is it still there?
It all seems . . . medical.
The Band-Aid.
The cough.
The weight loss.
The pale, pale skin.
The mysterious disappearances.
Even his advice about doctors. Those pills he’s always popping. Dumb Blake and his idiot drug habit.
It all adds up. Not to an addiction, but to an affliction.
I couldn’t live if you left me. And what did he say? Don’t put that on me.
Is he planning on leaving me because he’s . . .
No, that can’t be right. Oh, gosh. He could be sick. Really sick. Not just allergies or a cold that goes away.
For an ugly second, I worry if I could catch it. What is it? Could he have HIV? That’s why he won’t—no, no. Not that. Diabetes. They stick themselves all the time. It’s probably just that. Are diabetics pale? Do they cough? Maybe it’s leukemia. He can go to a hospital and get treatments. He’s going to be fine. People recover from leukemia. Bone marrow. He just needs new bone marrow.
It will get worse before it gets better.
That fits.
He can’t be that sick, though. Most of the time, he’s fine. He just coughs. It’s bronchitis or something. Maybe mono. But mono’s catching. He’d tell me if he had mono.
What disease makes you cough?
Just dumb stuff like colds, flu, pneumonia. I had that once. I coughed forever. Old smokers cough. But that doesn’t work for Derek.
Why won’t he just tell me?
I can’t bring it up—confront him. Not for a while. Not after last night. We need to get back to where we were before I threw him out. Oh, crap. I threw him out.
Late in the night after choir, I check for Derek online, but he’s not signed on. I write him a text about wanting his body. I’m still kind of crazed. Delete it. Simply send, I miss you, and go to sleep.
In the morning, I check my cell. Nothing gushy and sweet in reply. No voice-mail messages. No posts. No email. I’m scared. After everything that happened Monday night, I need to know that he’s all right with me—that we’re all right—before he slips off into that awful nothingness. I promise not to ask about the phantom Band-Aid on his stomach. Crap. It could have been there all along. He’s always got a sweatshirt on. Or a thick leather jacket. We’ve been dating for a few months now, and I’ve never been close enough to him to see his bare chest. Isn’t there something wrong with that? I feel dread in the pit of my stomach. His anger. His violence, even. There’s just so much about Derek I don’t know.