I walk to the bag I just brought from the store, unscrew a bottle of bourbon, and pour it on the dry side of the towel. Returning to my little soldier, I place it on her cut without warning, waiting for a wince—that shit should sting. I can’t explain why I did it. Maybe I wanted to see her react to something. Or maybe my desire for pain has expanded to inflicting it too.
Once I’m done, I go back to the sink and take a sip from the bottle.
“Can I have some?”
“No,” I bark back and glance at her. A big mistake—her wince, and not from physical pain, is visible. “You might have a concussion. It’s not a good idea to mix it with alcohol. Alright?” I add, softer this time.
She nods, averting her attention from me, and I take another sip out of spite. Fuck it, but now she’s taking the last pleasure away from my life with her judgment. Not here, not now. I loudly take one more sip so she can hear if she refuses to watch.
And that fucking sip refuses to go down, and I nearly choke on it. My damn body refuses me, siding with the little witch. I give her the stink eye, force the gulp down my throat, and placethe bottle in the cabinet. Just great, alcohol was the only thing holding me together, and now I have to give that up because herfeelingsare hurt. She should want me drunk and abstinent while we’re stuck here together because the things she wakes in me…she might not like them when they surface.
There’s not much to look at around here, so Leila watches the wall ahead of her, stubbornly refusing to look at me as I go through this internal crisis.
“Your brothers told me you’re super smart. So, how come you ended up here, in the middle of nowhere,” I spread my arms, “alone.”
“Alone?” she snorts and finally shifts her attention from the dot on the wall to me. “My brother also told me you’re super friendly and cool, and here I am, stuck in the cabin with an asshole.”
I smack the table with my open palm, expecting her to jump, but she doesn’t flinch. Instead, her eyes are trained on me as if she’s about to jump off the stool and attack me with her little claws. Or find the skillet again and use it on my other parts. My shoulder suddenly begins throbbing once more.
“What’s your problem?” I ask with narrowed eyes.
“My problem?” She lets out an angry chuckle. “Myproblem?” She stands from that stool and comes closer to me, poking her finger into my chest. I didn’t even notice that I moved toward her simultaneously, meeting her halfway. “What’syourproblem, huh?”
“I don’t have a problem,” I tell her.
But she doesn’t let go and steps closer, poking her finger harder. “R-r-right.”
I grab her hand in mine and press it to my chest, stopping her poking. “I don’t have a problem.” It comes out as a hiss.
She lifts herself on her tippytoes and hisses back, “You might not have a problem with anyone else, but you sure as fuck have one with me.”
Her eyes feverishly dart between mine while the muscles in her jaw move.
“I don’t have a problem with you,” I repeat, leaning closer.
“You’re an asshole.”
“That’s not what everyone says.” The corner of my lips lift in a mocking half-smile.
She grabs the front of my shirt and uses it to leverage herself while she inches her body closer. Her eyes shine with barely restrained anger. “Exactly. You’re a coward.”
She annoys me. She drives me crazy because she makes me out to be an asshole while I’ve never been one. People like me. They gravitate toward me. Everyone likes me but her. What’s wrong with her? And this thing she makes me feel deep inside my chest? This stupid desire to…live.
“You’re the only one who has a problem with me.”
She gets in my face. “That’s because I’m the only one who sees the real you.”
I feel a tick coming, and the muscle below my right eye starts jerking.
“Yeah?” I lean closer, and we’re a breath away now. “And who is that?”
She bares her pearly teeth in a snarl like a wild fox I’ve seen around this place. “A lost boy who is scared to show the world the real you.” Her nose touches mine, her voice shaky with anger. “Who is scared to show everyone that you are not the freak you want everyone to see.”
My free hand jumps and snakes behind her lower back, dragging her up my body. I doubt she’s touching the floor anymore, but I don’t feel her weight on my arm—I’m too pumped.
“I am,” I spit the words in her face, “exactly the freak everyone sees,” nearly pressing my nose to hers, I add, “and worse.”
She squeezes my shirt in her fists and pulls down on it until our noses are squashed together. “You aren’t. You’re just an imposter.”
