Hansel 4(6)

“Luke?” I close the small distance between us and wrap my hands around his forearms. “Luke—what’s wrong?”

Worry spreads out over a second. Two.

Then he blinks down at me.

He blinks again, more slowly, and his face loosens like a knot untied. Emotion flickers through his features. “Leah.” His voice is soft and deep. His eyes run up and down me, widening as if he’s just noticed I’m here. “Do you want to go?”

I shake my head. He still looks fragile, like something’s wrong, so I wrap my arms around his neck and press my body against his. My cheek hovers centimeters from his sweater as my hands rest lightly on his shoulders.

“I need to go inside,” I say softly. “Is that okay?”

“We can go in if you want to.”

I shut my eyes as my heart pounds. My feelings for him are like horses racing. The one that pulls ahead is need.

Maybe it’s self-destructive. Maybe it’s crazy. But I need him. Hansel. Luke. I don’t care what his name is. I don’t care that he’s a sex club owner, or that he’s hurt me more times than I can count since I saw him on the stage that night. I don’t care that being close to him makes me think of pills pills pills. Or that he loves someone named Shelly. I don’t care that after we leave this house and I return to life, I’ll be wrecked.

I can’t care right now, because it’s so hard, being back here, and I haven’t even stepped inside yet. He’s the only one who will ever understand. He’s the only one who can help me.

I lean my forehead against his chest as heavily as I dare and let my breath out. Wind shudders through the fan-like branches of the firs spread out around the house. It’s early afternoon, but the sunlight is anemic. Everything is cold.

As if he can feel the loneliness inside me, he brings his hand up to stroke my neck. His fingers are warm and rough on my cool skin.

“How do you come here, ever?” I whisper, looking up at him. “How do you do it by yourself?”

His gaze burns into mine. Then he lifts his eyes above my head. “There’s the groundskeeper,” he says quietly, his fingers still stroking. “I sent him home today.”

I move my hands off his shoulders. For a moment, they hover in the air. I should put them by my sides and take a step back. Instead, I step so close my breasts press against his chest and slide my arms around his waist. I can’t look at him as I settle my arms against his hips. “That’s not an answer.”

He’s so still and hard and warm against me. My insides recoil in fear of being pushed away. I’m so focused on him, waiting for his reaction to my sudden boldness, that I pick up on something almost unnoticeable: His fingertips, stroking my throat, are trembling. It’s so fine, I can barely feel it, but once I notice, I zero in on the sensation. My stomach twists into a knot.

So there’s my answer. What was I expecting? Of course it’s hard for him to come here.

I think about his need for pain, and I feel sick.

He says he comes here because he likes to leave, and I believe that—I want to feel the rush of choosing to come here and leaving of my own accord, too—but that can’t be it for him. My gaze lifts to his face: his guarded face. His eyes are on the doorway behind me, but he doesn’t have to look at me for me to read him. I can feel the depth of his emotions like a black hole tugging me in.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. Beneath my arms, his body stiffens: a betrayal of his cool tone.

“Maybe you can do what you need to do, and we can leave together,” I try.

His hand strokes behind my neck, his fingertips pushing gently into my hair. He’s still looking everywhere but me.

I tighten my arms around him. “Thank you for bringing me here. I’m glad it’s you I’m with.”

His jaw locks; I can see his throat move as he swallows. He moves his hand off me and takes a step back, out of my arms.

He nods. “Sure.”

I look at him for a long moment, trying to read his mood—but I just can’t. I nod. “Okay, then.” I step toward the door, and just when I think I’m going to be doing this by myself, he closes the distance between us.

“Do you want me to hold your hand?” he asks in a low voice. His face is solemn. Concerned, I think.

As if his concern reminds me of the need for it, my pulse quickens. I hear my thin voice say, “Um…yeah. If you don’t mind.”

His hand folds around mine, and without another word, we are moving through the doorway.

My head aches, a stinging sensation, as if my brain is shrinking inside it. My temples pound with each small step, until we’re stopped there just inside the foyer: two pawns on a twisted chess board.