Chapter 3

When it’s actually time to leave, around four o’clock, I start to wonder if he’s changed his mind. I can call an Uber or ask Mina to take me into town, of course. Even though I have a license, I don’t drive unless absolutely necessary, my mom’s car. Not today. Hades is outside the hotel in his black shirt, raised on his elbows, his black jeans, his phone in his hand. I can smell his scent as I pass him. He puts down his phone and opens the door for me. He walks around the back of the car and gets into his seat. He sighs when he sees me awkwardly and stretches; he fastens my seat belt. Then his own.

"If you don't want to do this, just let me know," he tells me halfway through after a suffocating silence.

"I do," I assure him, "just a little too quickly. Have you ever been to my house before?" I ask him.

I know it happened once before.

"At Christmas. I brought Mina and Lucille, and they insisted that I stay with you. You have the house with the white terrace. Your room is in the attic, and you have a window that looks out onto the road. Round. And a wicker swing to read in."

"I still have one," I'm bragging.

"Same?"

"Another one," he explained. "Bigger and made of iron. More resistant. I broke the first one with my father. This one will keep both of us safe."

He reaches for my hand and kisses it, again. My emotions pass me again and I look at him. I know what he's thinking. He measures my hand with him again. It seems small to him. He looks at my nails, natural and quite long, painted red and black. He kisses my fingers and I feel like I can't breathe anymore.

"Why are you doing this?" Even though I know I'm sinking all my ships with this, I ask him.

"What exactly?"

The fool does it. He knows exactly what I mean.

"The hand thing," I explain, and he squeezes my palm tighter in his. He looks at the road, not at me.

"Does it bother you? I can stop if you want."

If he just did it, if he didn't ask my permission, my opinion, I could lie to myself that it's not up to me. That he does whatever he wants and that it's not my problem, but like this... Like this, I'm a terrible person and I don't deserve to have friends.

"Continue," I ask him as if his lips on my skin weren't causing me to short-circuit.

"That's what I thought too," he whispers to himself.

He asked me to open a bottle of water for him so he could drink. He asks if I want it. No. He takes a gum and I take one too. He stops at the bookstore. I look for my mother's books then I walk around. I waste time. I stop by a particular book. I take it off the shelf. Danish. To my shame, I saw the movie first. I continue. I pass Kafka's Diary and promise myself I'll get it another time. I have a list. I come across Dostoevsky. Demons. He picks it up for me, he knows I want it. He heard me talking about it. I tell him twice that that's all because he's asking me twice if I don't want to look anymore, maybe I'll find something.

Then he makes the sexiest gesture a man can make, from my perspective. He offered to buy me the books, and I didn't know how to refuse him, so I accepted. He grabs me by the shoulder and leads me outside. He runs his hand through my short, shoulder-length hair, recently dyed a bright, noticeable, tinted pink. The underside is purple and the back is completely purple. Underneath. He ruffles me, and when I get angry, he immediately calls me cute. He teases me. We put the books away and we're ready to leave. My eyes stop at the window of a lingerie store. An employee puts a set in the window with lace and leather lines. Black.

"Do you want to come in?"

No. I don't have money for that store. My dad would, but we decided long ago that as long as everyone has their own money, the only thing they share is food at home. I can't ask him for money to buy me expensive underwear. Plus, I'm saving for a car, so I better not.

"I was just looking. It looks nice," I open my own door. "Should we stop and get something to eat instead? I don't know what I have at home, honestly."

He looked at the store one more time and started the engine. He stopped at the first supermarket, where we bought juice and snacks, one of which was more unhealthy than the other.

I tell him he can go up to my room first, while I let my mom know I'm here and that I'm not alone. I tell him he can open his laptop while I put the chips in some bowls and bring them over. Let him make himself comfortable. I find him in my cradle, with one leg dangling and the laptop in his arms. I want to put the bowl on the table next to the bed. He points to the windowsill, it's closer to him. That's where he left the juice, too. I think I can go change. I'm sweaty and I should get some other clothes anyway. Or at least a bra so I don't have to be naked next to him.

"Come here, damn it, or I'll bite," he mutters, still with his nose in his laptop.

Does he want us to sit there? It's comfortable but we'd be awfully close to each other. I'm a terrible friend. I sit down next to him as soon as he makes room for me. My leg is pressed against his. We watch Crimson Peak. It's quiet for two hours and all you can hear is the movie and the chips. He's holding the laptop and he's holding me too. My head is on his shoulder. His hand is around my waist and I feel it go up my spine once. It's still bare. He's happy.

I'm a terrible friend because I don't move after Thomas Sharpe is dead, and Edith leaves until the movie is over. He puts the laptop on the windowsill. He doesn't move either. He puts both his arms around me. He rests his chin on the top of my head and sits like that for a good few minutes, without moving.

"I'm thinking about breaking up with Delilah, she came out of nowhere when I thought she was asleep."

"What? Why?" I move away from him a little.

It's impossible. I had already imagined them married and with children, and I had already prepared myself for my suffering if I were to love him still then. Delilah would have let me see him. What if the next girlfriend is jealous or something?

"Because I don't love her. And I don't think she loves me."

"Apollo wouldn't agree," I find myself grumbling.

Apollo insisted on this relationship in the first place. It's perfect for business.

"Apollo, go to hell," is all he mutters. "Plus, I'm just thinking about it at the moment. I haven't done it yet. Please, don't tell anyone."

I wouldn't have done it anyway. Who would I tell? Mina would think I was making it up to feed my fantasies. Delilah would be devastated. Who would I tell?

"I promise. I won't make a sound."

He pulls me into his arms again. He kisses my chip-stained fingers again. He looks at his watch. It's past eight. I only got home at six. It was almost an hour just driving.

"What time do you go to bed?"

"I don't know. Tomorrow is a work day, so I think at 11 at the latest."

I don't ask him why. I'm afraid.

"Ah! And what time do your parents leave in the morning?"

"Dad before eight. Tomorrow is Thursday. Mom has classes from 9."

Again, I don't ask him why.

"Wait in the morning. I'll come get you," he asks me.

He stays for about half an hour and then leaves. He comes back in the morning, at 9. He has a paper bag in his hand and hands it to me when I open the door for him to come in. He says it's for me and I look at it. It's yesterday's underwear and a few other similar pairs. I'm mute. I know one thing for sure, a friend shouldn't buy me this. He points to the one in the window and smiles mischievously.

"I think you should wear it today."

I listen to him, maybe just to see how soft the material is or how it feels on my skin. I wonder how anyone could fit me so well. I pull on my round, mid-thigh eco-leather skirt. My short, baggy T-shirt says Silver Scream today. I have some summer ankle boots in the same leather as the skirt, laced up and long on my feet. They're low. I wear a choker around my neck. I turn to him.

"I bet you look gorgeous in it," he said.

I don't say anything to him. I take my backpack and phone and lock the door. He puts his hand on my back and leads me to the car. He opens my door and closes it. He sits down in his seat. He puts on music and while he drives he runs his hand through my hair, as if playing with it. It's short, I know. His girlfriend's is long, almost to her hips. But I tell myself that I don't compare myself to her. That I am me and that whatever he does now means nothing. If I allowed myself to think about Meanings, I wouldn't recover after reality hits me.