I pause, but he doesn't say anything, so I continue.
"But then... my friends all just... didn't show up," I say, my voice strained and I can feel tears burning at my eyes. "They all had just decided that princess parties were too young, not cool enough for them, and they never told me. So I was just sitting there in my dress, waiting for them all day. Mom kept telling me to come inside, to just open presents with the family, but I was in disbelief that they'd stand me up. That they'd be so mean."
The pain still feels so raw. I had been so humiliated, so hurt. They'd told me the day before, promised me they were going to come.
"And I was crying on the steps when you came home from being with your friends. You were skateboarding back then, remember? And a lot skinnier, but I think you'd already gotten your first tattoo and your tongue pierced, and you always had that stupid mohawk," I say with a bit of a laugh. "When you found out what happened, you were so mad, and I remember you ran inside, right to dad's closet and grabbed one of his suits. It didn't really fit, but you smoothed out your hair, and you offered me your hand, and introduced yourself as Prince Charming. Mom and dad put on some music, and you made me dance with you until I stopped crying and started laughing."
I smile at the memory, remembering his young, punk rock phase and how hard he always looked, but for me, it was nothing but affection.
He still hasn't said a word, though, and I worry he doesn't remember, or doesn't care. It makes my heart hurt, and a tear spills down from the corner of my eye.
He was my hero back then.
He was my everything.
But after that party, I started having feelings for him. Feelings I shouldn't have, and I started pushing him away. Little bits at first, and then when he turned eighteen and moved to a different town, it was easier to forget all of it and pretend like it was nothing but a girly phase. I dated, tried to move on and have my own life. But now here I am, back under the same roof as him, and my feelings are burning stronger than ever, even with my anger.
I swallow back the lump in my throat, the hot air feeling so heavy on my chest, and I push down my blanket, my nightgown already damp with sweat.
It's minutes later when I finally hear him, his dark, rumbling voice penetrating the wall.
"I remember, Princess."
That nickname again, this time said with such tenderness instead of scorn and mockery. I sob again and try to quiet it, trying to fight the urge to break down. I can't handle him hearing me like that.
“I miss them so much.”
“I know…” There’s a brief pause. “Even though I hadn’t seen them in a while, I still expect to go home and find them there, like nothing has changed.”
I don’t know what to say to that, because even though I know they’re not there, part of my mind tricks me into thinking I just haven’t seen them in a while. As if they’re not really gone, they’re just not around.
The thought breaks my heart, and I push it away.
"I miss you. You always looked out for me, even though you never had to," I whimper, my voice pathetic.
"I tried."
He's still being short with me, but at least he's talking. That makes me feel a little better, and I imagine opening my door, going to his room, curling up with him. Feeling his skin against mine. Just like we had on the couch all those times. I don't even know what part of him I'm craving. The part of him that makes me feel like he's my hero, that he'll always protect me? Or the part of him that makes women lose their minds, willing to give up so much just for a chance to sleep with him?
I shudder at the thought, because deep down, I know I want both. I want him, wholly and utterly.
"When did things get so... fucked up," I say softly, my body sticky, and my sex throbbing with heat. The tension between us is driving me mad in more than one way, and his words keep echoing in my mind. The intensity in which he had said them.
"I don't know, Abby," he says with a deep gravel to his tone, sleeplessness getting to him too.
"Was it the drugs?"
"Naw... that was just a side effect."
"Then why? Why'd you move away?"
There's a long pause, and I'm afraid he won't answer. Lord knows I'd asked him that question enough over the years, and never got one. The clock in the kitchen ticks past the seconds, the sound echoing through the quiet of his house. I start drifting between sleep and wakefulness.
"I didn't want to hurt you."
His voice makes my eyes flutter back open, and I wonder if I heard him right."You hurt me more by leaving," I croak in return, that lump in my throat making it hard to even speak.
Another long silence spreads out between us, and again I want to go into his room, to see his face. But it's easier like this in some ways, not knowing.