“Nothing in this basement is scarier than me, I can assure you of that.” She chuckles as she still stands with her back to me, shoving my wet clothes into the dryer.
“As someone with firsthand experience, I know that’s absolutely true. Seriously, you don’t have to do that.” I walk briskly over so I can help her take my dirty clothes and move them.
Bevan tsks under her breath. “Your room was gross, and I know you hate coming down here. I used to do this all the time.”
“Yeah, used you. You’re not responsible for me, Bev.” I drop another nickname, just a shortened version and not baby, which is so much more intimate.
Still, I see the way she worries her lip between her teeth.
“I know that.”
A beat of silence passes as she switches on all the levers and settings, something I admittedly have no idea how to do.
“But thank you. Honestly, you’re a savior because I have been struggling to do this.” My grin is sheepish.
Bevan blinks down, then back up as the dryer starts. “I like taking care of you. I wish I did it more, back then. It made me feel close to someone. My therapist says that I like to block people out, use my walls to intimidate. But that when I want to, I could be the most nurturing person.”
She’s opening up to me, and a crack runs right through the foundation I’ve been trying to build. The one I thought was solid, that separated me from her and left our relationship in the past. How dead wrong I was.
I’ve done nothing but think about her and be unable to stay away from her since I moved back in. I knew it would happen like this, the slow, torturous fall I didn’t want but couldn’t resist. And how can I stay away now? When she’s talking to me about therapy, knowing it was the one huge contention point between us. Bevan does seem different, and we’ve both grown since our breakup.
Before I can stop myself, my body moves to envelop hers. She gives me all of her, our limbs tangled with her ear pressed to my chest. I rest my cheek on the crown of her head, loving the silk of her hair under me.
This hug is way more than a friendly gesture, it conveys feelings and emotions that neither of us wants to put a name to. My hardness melds with her softness and we’re one, clinging to each other while we’re allowing ourselves to have this moment.
“Thank you,” I whisper into her hair, relishing the scent that has become second nature to me.
Bevan has been using the same body wash with this delicious coconut scent for as long as I can remember. It always makes me think of her in a bikini on some tropical island, laid out so I can see all of her tan, willowy curves.
“I’ll walk away this time.” She untangles herself from me. “Your laundry should be dry in an hour.”
The loss of her in my arms is stark and frigid, and I immediately want to pull her back. I want to do things I’ll probably regret right after I do them.
Except … I can’t find that warning sound in my brain any longer. I can’t locate that dread or doom I’ve felt before when I thought about kissing Bevan after our breakup.
Something is happening, and it both terrifies and excites me.
All too soon, I’m left in the basement alone as she makes the wise decision for both of us.
Then I’m left to sprint up the stairs myself, away from whatever we just left down in this space no one ventures to.
18
BEVAN
The air in this room is so tense, if you were to light a match, it would probably spark an electrical fire.
All around me, I hear the scribble of pencils on paper, frantically etching and eking out thoughts before the proctor, an old red-headed woman with a bad box dye job, calls time.
My hand is so sore and my brain so overused that I barely even feel either anymore; that’s how dulled my senses are. There is this place of existing, at least they say, you get to when you’re taking the LSATs. That after a while, you’re just so burned out but have to keep going that nothing fazes you.
Kind of like torture, when you reach a threshold wherein you don’t even feel pain anymore.
Yes, I’m comparing the LSATs to military torture, because someone within that organization must have made this test up. The test is comprised of five sections: two sections of logical reasoning, one of analytical reasoning, a reading comprehension section, and then an unscored variable section. This is all followed by a writing sample administered at the end of the test. So basically, they’re trying to make you have a breakdown or just quit altogether.
I’m currently scrambling to get every thought out in a logical manner during my writing sample, my answer to which is based on a prompt that would read like a current courtroom case. I have to argue as the defendant or the prosecutor in a case concerning marijuana use of a minor that was off high school property but technically still during school hours. There is a lot of legal red tape and burden of responsibility that I have to wade through, and I’m also including current rulings about marijuana use in general, so it’s taking a lot of time.
The finish line is in sight, but at the same time I don’t want the proctor to call time because I want to be able to fully write this entire essay I’ve formed in my head. This is what law schools will look at to determine how I reason legal cases, and that’s the biggest demonstration of my ability, if I had to say so myself.
Scrawling the last line of cursive out, I throw my pen down like I’ve just climbed Mount Everest. I catch the eye of another girl a row up who turned around at my noise, and she gives me a thumbs-up like she scaled the mountain, too. It honestly feels like we did.
Not ten seconds later, the proctor calls time and a collective mix of sighs and groans goes up from the dozens of college kids in here. As we stumble out of the auditorium smelling like stress and lack of caffeine, the sun hits my face and I feel like a vampire. Something about being in there, finally taking the LSATs when I’ve been preparing for this for years of my life, makes my heart beat with anxiety.
What happens if I get everything I’ve been working for?
On the other hand, there is a sureness in my gut that I aced that test. That I’m going to get a top score, and I’ll have my pick of schools when it comes time for acceptances. There isn’t much I’m unsure about when it comes to academics, and as I walk to my car to head home, there is a distinct confirmation whispering in my ear that I’ve succeeded.
But somewhere during the drive, the silence starts to get to me. I come down from the high of being so focused and cutthroat while taking the exam. My worries, fears, and insecurities begin to creep in and I can’t seem to get a grip on my slipping sanity.
It might be sunny and bright outside, but I park in our driveway and make my way up the porch in a fog.
The front door closes behind me with a snick and some kind of sieve gives way in me. All of a sudden, I bend at the knees like I might hurl all over the floor, but instead, noisy sobs wrack my body. Tears drip from my eyes. Some of the emotional baggage I’ve been holding on to for so long pushes out of me like a tidal wave and I stand still, like if I don’t give in, I’ll be able to stand my ground after this.
“Bevan?” Amelie asks as she rounds the corner, probably having heard my cries. “Oh my God, what happened? Are you hurt?”