Page 40 of Blood Queen
“No microwave, no buttons to push,” Truman remarks. “I like it.”
I smile. “Wait till you taste it.”
We retreat to the living room with a bowl of salted and buttered popcorn with some sprinkled nutritional yeast and our printed articles.
“Do you think the Mafia is really like the movies?” I ask while grabbing a handful of popcorn.
Truman shrugs. “I mean, maybe? I don’t know. I guess it could be less violent, but then again, it might be worse than they make it seem too.”
I heave out a sigh. “None of this feels real.”
***
Articles are spread out haphazardly around us in the living room.
“Most of these seem to be covered by one reporter,” he says, squinting at a page. “An investigative reporter named Marcy Saviano. Let me look her up real quick.”
I scrub my hands over my face, tired and feeling heavy. Truman’s been at it all day and night and shows no signs of stopping. My eyes are heavy and my chest feels tight.
Too much information. Too much gore.
Too much truth.
“I need a break,” I whisper.
Truman’s gaze flicks to mine. An apologetic look on his face.
“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “This is like a movie, and I kinda forget that it’s not fiction, that this is your truth. Your life.” He sets his phone down. “Do you want to do something? Play another game?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I slap my thighs in frustration. “I don’t know what I want to do or what I should be doing.” I push to my feet. Pace the room. Pent-up anger, betrayal, and grief war for a home in my gut. Tears prick at my eyes. I spin around wildly, a cry slipping through my lips.
Suddenly, Truman is there, in front of me. Pulling me against his hard, board body.
“Breathe, Kid,” he murmurs into my hair. “Just breathe.” I sink into him, gulping air. The scent of his skin—grass cuttings and summer sweat—calms me. My legs give out but he holds my weight easily. Steadies me.
“This is just—the horror,” I say into his chest. “How? How did I not know any of this?”
“How could you? It’s not your fault.” He peels back slightly, looks in my eyes. “Imagine if you hadn’t met me. You’d be all alone in this,” he says and grins playfully.
I huff out a sigh and stifle the urge to roll my eyes back at him, but the truth of his words isn’t lost on me. Where would I have gone? What would I be doing right now if not for him? This glorious boy with the ability to calm and comfort and soothe me. He is all I have in the world.
“I have an idea that might make you feel better. Do you trust me?”
Nodding, I take a step away from him, slightly embarrassed at our embrace.
The water is dark and cool, rippling under the moonlight. He’s taken me to the river, although not by the bridge in town. A secluded spot where it pools more than flows.
He’d asked me to trust him, and I had. Especially when he’d mentioned needing the truck keys.
I hesitate on the edge, toying with the hem of my shirt. Truman’s already kicked off his shoes and waded in calf-deep, waving for me to hurry. Watching me intensely. He’d stripped off his clothes like it was nothing. As if seeing him in only his underwear didn’t affect me. It did. It made my body react in ways I wasn’t accustomed to.
“Come on!” he calls, his grin a challenge.
I take a deep breath and peel off my shorts, inching toward the water like it might burn. Truman splashes ahead, goading me further until I’m hip-deep. The sudden chill cuts through my despair like a knife, sharp and shocking. But his eyes are locked on my body as if he’s trying to memorize every inch.
“See? Told you,” he says with a laugh, diving under and popping up beside me, his hair slicked back and dripping. “Feels good to do something normal, right?”
For a moment, it does. I float on my back and stare at the sky. It’s dark and velvety—more stars than normal shining—and empty of anything but possibility. Truman swims lazy circles around me, and slowly, the day that was pressing against my skull begins to evaporate. His arm or leg ever so often grazing mine. Giving me goosebumps.
