I don’t always end up deep down this memory lane. Usually I only look at the pictures, but once I read one of his comments, I find myself in an all-consuming black hole. One after the other, I relive being the sad little girl so desperate to love herself, to make sense of her changing body, to experience being wanted, that I latched onto the first person to give me that. A stranger on the internet who found my blog and gave me the attention I was so hungry for.
There’s an echoing pulse of endorphins as I read through the emails we’ve exchanged, where I sent more…risqué photos when he asked for them. Nothing nude, but not entirely innocent, either. He was so good at talking to me, getting me to see things his way. But some part of me is uncomfortable with the idea the suggestive images are still out there somewhere. I couldn’t bring myself to ever delete the emails, afraid I might forget the connection we had.
Maybe I’m stupid.
Maybe he doesn’t think of me at all, even though he worms his way into my thoughts and brings my entire day to a halt.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling weak, I consider replying to an old email. Even if he doesn’t respond, it would be an outlet. The temptation hovers at the back of my mind. I haven’t taken things that far, though.
One of the earlier emails catches my eye.
To: Thea Marie <[email protected]>
From: Henry Knight <[email protected]>
Subject: a knight always comes for his princess
You’re 15? Damn. Thought for sure you were older. By the way you talk and those pretty pictures, you seem closer to my age. I would expect to find you entering college with me this semester. That’s not a big age difference, though. How do you like older guys? The idiots in your grade sound like their intellect is subpar to yours. They wouldn’t understand you the way I do, princess. You must have one of those old souls, something too special to waste on boys your age. The connection I feel to you is unreal, it’s hard to believe.
I used to feel just like you do. Tell me more about it. Tell me everything about you. I feel like I could reach through the screen and caress your cheek when you open up to me.
The world will show you what it has to offer you. It brought us together, didn’t it? Now that I have you, I can’t imagine you not being mine. Trust and it will keep offering you good things.
I guess I should sleep. It’s 4am here. Thoughts of talking to you and imagining your laugh always keep me up. I want to touch your hair.
—Henry
Any time I talked to him, I felt his pain, too. He was like me. An old soul stuck in a body too mismatched to feel like we fit in with the world.
Henry was my first love. As much as our conversations skewed toward difficult, dark topics, or how many times he had to talk me into sending another photo, and another, and another…my sick heart was happy I had him.
I jolt when I hear Constantine barking downstairs. It’s like a switch has flipped in my mind, the happy thoughts of love tainted by the logical side of me that judged myself the older I got. Releasing a rough sound of aggravation, I close out of everything, putting my face in my hands.
This is my crutch. My fall back. These memories are shrouded in shadows from a time I was tripping my way through growing up. If I had been able to express myself without fear of how much Mom would jump down my throat, maybe I wouldn’t have turned to the internet for comfort.
I chew on the corner of my lip until it stings. “Ouch.”
Pressing my fingers to my tender lip, I sigh. I used to think this was the most confident I could ever feel, but looking back at the old email thread, I feel in my bones how different it is from today, ever since Wyatt texted me back and took our fling to the next level.
I don’t need to try to recapture the excitement I used to feel with my online boyfriend as I broke every one of Mom’s rules, because now I have the real deal. It’s only been a week, but Wyatt and I have messaged each other every day.
Popping off the bed, I put my laptop on the desk next to a stack of filled journals. I go on my tiptoes in the closet to reach behind an old box of binders filled to the brim with recipes I printed out from online to grab one of my secret stashes of contraband clothes. I lift the lid of the box covered in a sunflower pattern and unveil lingerie Maisy and I bought in secret when we went shopping for our summer retreat in the mountains. The material is soft and luxurious beneath my fingers as I touch the pretty bra and a sheer emerald green bodysuit.
I spend a solid half hour taking all new photos of myself, starting in my crop top, picking my mood up off the floor. When I’ve got several new pictures on my camera roll, I glance at the clock on my nightstand framed inside a porcelain rainbow. Perfect. It’s about that time.
Picking the one I imagined earlier, where I’ve got a playful smile with the bottom of the crop top between my teeth, I send it to him.
My phone buzzes with a response right away. I bite my lip as pleasure fizzles beneath my skin. It’s like he was waiting for me.
Seven
Connor
It’s hours after the encounter with Thea at the end of my run, and I’m still obsessing over it. That was the closest I’ve ever gotten to her. Turns out, she smells like sugar.
And I wouldn’t say no to a real taste.
After stripping out of my shorts, I almost texted her. She seemed to need the salvation of release with her bitchy mom breathing down her neck. The way she stood up to me, so quiet, yet so fucking fierce—I was rock hard and even her mom’s arrival couldn’t dilute the force of desire coursing in my veins. I’ve had people yell and scream in my face, threaten me, hit me, and all of it pales to the resolute way Thea held her own.
She doesn’t fear me by reputation. We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we? She has no idea who she’s getting tangled with.
Quiet, mousy Thea Kennedy interests me. I want to know what else there is behind the nerdy good girl.
I blame the thoughts of Thea when I enter the kitchen to grab something to eat for distracting me from realizing what was happening.
Mom and Damien look up as I pause in front of the fridge. He has a dish towel draped over his shoulder, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, shirtsleeves rolled up as he dices vegetables at the island. Mom leans against the counter beside him, a glass of white wine raised to her lips. Her cheeks are tinged pink, the way they flush when she’s been laughing.
It’s domestic and turns my stomach as soon as I lay eyes on them.
“Hello, son,” Damien greets.
My knuckles turn white as I fist my hands at my side. Son. No. Absolutely not. He has no right after what I caught them doing, after the beating I gave him for it.
I grunt in response, flashing him a glare. He always tries, and I never give him an inch. I’m in court-mandated anger management because he had to fuck my mom in our kitchen.
Mrs. Kennedy is to blame, too. That snooping busybody is the one who called the cops as a concerned citizen looking out for the neighborhood. The one thing Mom and I agree on is Mrs. Kennedy’s position on both our shit lists. Without her, I wouldn’t have been arrested and Mom wouldn’t have bribed everyone involved to land me with therapy instead of juvie.