runs through him. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “I won’t let go.”
“Lie back on the bed,” he rasps.
I respond to the order in his tone. He opens my robe and stares his fill. Then he turns and strides out. Across the hall a door opens and shuts.
I lie there, belly hitching. What the hell just happened? Forget the rabbit hole—I’ve gotten sucked up into a tornado and am off to Oz.
The wizard behind the curtain didn’t turn out to be great and all powerful, rather just a man. And Z didn’t walk away; he almost ran.
What chases him?
I roll off the bed, still in a bathing suit and bathrobe, and strip in a daze. I hang the wet suit in the shower in my bathroom before returning to the closet to see what else could be in there. Of course there are pajamas. One is a silk set, pale blue camisole and pants that feel light as air. I slip them on and stare into the mirror, realizing it’s an exact match for my eyes. For some reason it doesn’t feel coincidental. I should go to bed. Back in the bathroom, I wash my face, and there is a fresh toothbrush, toothpaste, face cream. I can’t help noticing that they are all the brands I favor.
How does he know? He has never been to my house.
But there are whispers.
The hacking. The renegade. It’s part of the Zavtra mystique, fuels the air of bad boy.
The house is silent and I’m exhausted. A bone-deep weariness settles into my bones but at the same time, the idea of sleep is like a bad joke, mocking me.
I looked in Pandora’s box and it’s unnerving; there are strange things, scary things and I don’t know what they mean. I don’t understand half of what Z says and what he does share raises my hackles.
There is danger here.
But I know that old myth and there is more to Pandora’s box. Despite everything, one thing was left, the key piece that makes all the unbearable suffering bearable.
Hope.
I leave the room and head to his.
Beth
I grip the knob and have a gut-deep flash that the door will be locked. Because that’s what Z would do. No easier way to keep a person out than by turning a lock.
Taking a deep breath, I twist and the door creaks forward.
It’s open.
Shadows press against me as I squint, peering around. Just like the rest of the house, the cavernous interior appears virtually devoid of personality. No paintings hang on the wall. No personal knickknacks dot the wall-length bureau. A four-poster king-sized bed fills the bulk of the space.
No one is here.
How is that possible?
Z is at least six feet tall. Guys his height don’t just up and disappear.
“Hello?” I whisper.
No response, except from my heart, which kicks into high gear. I still taste Z on my mouth, the salty punishing kisses that left my mouth this side of swollen.
What are you doing?
This situation should by rights feel a little creepy. After all, he admitted to killing his father, although suggested it wasn’t due to any act of violence, but rather taking away that which he most loved. Still, when someone basically says, “Don’t trust me,” that’s exactly what they mean.
But my twenty-two years have taught me that life has a funny way of twisting a person’s insides until you can forget how the truth ever looked in the first place.
My shape reflects from a full-length mirror, my eyes are cloaked, and only a vague diffuse light from the window highlights my hair and the shape of my mouth.
The car accident taught me a lesson. There is the real truth and the truth we live, plagued by guilt and self-doubt. Z seems tangled in these knots, and perhaps that’s what makes me feel tied to him, connected in some deep way beyond just the physical connection.
I pad to the bed and run a hand over the thick gray comforter. Gray. Black. White. These are the colors he favors. Both his office and his home keep to the same monochromatic palette. Why does he insist on shying away from any brightness, living in shadows and eschewing any vibrancy? Always the somber, never the
“Lie back on the bed,” he rasps.
I respond to the order in his tone. He opens my robe and stares his fill. Then he turns and strides out. Across the hall a door opens and shuts.
I lie there, belly hitching. What the hell just happened? Forget the rabbit hole—I’ve gotten sucked up into a tornado and am off to Oz.
The wizard behind the curtain didn’t turn out to be great and all powerful, rather just a man. And Z didn’t walk away; he almost ran.
What chases him?
I roll off the bed, still in a bathing suit and bathrobe, and strip in a daze. I hang the wet suit in the shower in my bathroom before returning to the closet to see what else could be in there. Of course there are pajamas. One is a silk set, pale blue camisole and pants that feel light as air. I slip them on and stare into the mirror, realizing it’s an exact match for my eyes. For some reason it doesn’t feel coincidental. I should go to bed. Back in the bathroom, I wash my face, and there is a fresh toothbrush, toothpaste, face cream. I can’t help noticing that they are all the brands I favor.
How does he know? He has never been to my house.
But there are whispers.
The hacking. The renegade. It’s part of the Zavtra mystique, fuels the air of bad boy.
The house is silent and I’m exhausted. A bone-deep weariness settles into my bones but at the same time, the idea of sleep is like a bad joke, mocking me.
I looked in Pandora’s box and it’s unnerving; there are strange things, scary things and I don’t know what they mean. I don’t understand half of what Z says and what he does share raises my hackles.
There is danger here.
But I know that old myth and there is more to Pandora’s box. Despite everything, one thing was left, the key piece that makes all the unbearable suffering bearable.
Hope.
I leave the room and head to his.
Beth
I grip the knob and have a gut-deep flash that the door will be locked. Because that’s what Z would do. No easier way to keep a person out than by turning a lock.
Taking a deep breath, I twist and the door creaks forward.
It’s open.
Shadows press against me as I squint, peering around. Just like the rest of the house, the cavernous interior appears virtually devoid of personality. No paintings hang on the wall. No personal knickknacks dot the wall-length bureau. A four-poster king-sized bed fills the bulk of the space.
No one is here.
How is that possible?
Z is at least six feet tall. Guys his height don’t just up and disappear.
“Hello?” I whisper.
No response, except from my heart, which kicks into high gear. I still taste Z on my mouth, the salty punishing kisses that left my mouth this side of swollen.
What are you doing?
This situation should by rights feel a little creepy. After all, he admitted to killing his father, although suggested it wasn’t due to any act of violence, but rather taking away that which he most loved. Still, when someone basically says, “Don’t trust me,” that’s exactly what they mean.
But my twenty-two years have taught me that life has a funny way of twisting a person’s insides until you can forget how the truth ever looked in the first place.
My shape reflects from a full-length mirror, my eyes are cloaked, and only a vague diffuse light from the window highlights my hair and the shape of my mouth.
The car accident taught me a lesson. There is the real truth and the truth we live, plagued by guilt and self-doubt. Z seems tangled in these knots, and perhaps that’s what makes me feel tied to him, connected in some deep way beyond just the physical connection.
I pad to the bed and run a hand over the thick gray comforter. Gray. Black. White. These are the colors he favors. Both his office and his home keep to the same monochromatic palette. Why does he insist on shying away from any brightness, living in shadows and eschewing any vibrancy? Always the somber, never the
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