Slowly, awareness seeps into my brain and I prop myself up. Apparently, the book I was reading was tucked under my cheek and my movements cause it to fall.
It does with a thud and we both watch it. Me, with a grimace and him, with a blank look.
I’m about to get off the bed when he speaks, “You know…”
I whip my eyes in his direction.
He’s leaning forward now, his fingers threaded between his spread thighs as he says, “When I was little, I used to have trouble falling asleep. So, Maggie used to tell me stories. About the stars, because I’d lie there and watch them.”
He points to where I was lying with the tip of his chin. “She told me a story once about Orion. According to the legend, he was a hunter and one day, he meets these sisters and falls in love with them. He spends years chasing after them, trying to win them over. But Zeus finds out about it and decides to put a stop to it. So he turns the sisters into doves. And they fly away and leave Orion and his undying love behind. Do you know what happened to them?”
Zach’s voice is soft, softer than I’ve ever heard. A lullaby, and he’s telling me a story.
And I’m here, sitting on his bed, listening to it not only with my ears but with every part of my body. I’m listening to his every word as if his are the last words I’ll ever hear.
It’s like a dream.
I clutch the sheet that I don’t even remember putting on myself. “No.”
“The sisters are now a constellation up in the sky called Pleiades. They are seven stars. Though, you can only see six of them for some reason.”
The Pleiades. This mansion with seven towers.
“The Prince who built this place decades and decades ago must’ve been into stars,” Zach murmurs, reading my thoughts.
And probably, this Prince gets his love for stars from his ancestors.
“And Orion,” I whisper. “What happened to him?”
“He’s a constellation too. And centuries later, every night, he still chases after them across the sky. He’s probably going to chase after them till the end of time.”
There’s a smile on his lips. In the darkness I can’t tell if it’s real or not but it still has an effect on me.
An effect that makes me whisper, “It’s a beautiful story.”
“You think so?”
I nod. “Yes. Loving someone so much that you become immortal like a star. So you could love them forever. Yeah, it’s beautiful.”
It’s something I want. So, so badly.
It’s something that I’m afraid I’ll never have. Because of him. Because of how much I hate him, the guy who told me the most breathtaking tale of love.
The guy who thinks love makes you bleed.
Zach’s smile widens and morphs into a chuckle. He sits back and throws out a laugh. A rusty, harsh laugh. “I told you that story, Blue, because it’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard. I remember laughing the first time I heard it. And the reason I keep going back to it is because it makes me believe in how shitty and miserable love is. How lonely.”
I don’t even know why he thinks that. But I can see that it’s something he believes in with his very soul. With every fiber of his being and with every dark thought in his head.
“Love isn’t misery,” I say finally, because I have to say something. “It’s not shitty. It’s not lonely. It doesn’t make you bleed. And if it does, well then, it’s not love. My parents were in love and they weren’t miserable. They were happy. Love is good. It’s… magic. It’s supposed to make your life easier, better.”
Zach studies me for a few heartbeats, his fingers on his mouth again. “I didn’t think it was possible but that was the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard.” I narrow my eyes at him but he keeps going, “Besides, it’s been a thousand years of chasing and the guy can’t take a hint and apparently, neither can you.”
Thrusting the sheets aside, I stand.
Only, I forgot about the blisters and the pain, and I stumble. “Fuck.”
I would’ve probably fallen on the floor if not for a strong grip around my arm. His fingers flex on my bare skin when he looks at my feet. “What the fuck happened?”
My toes have splotches and ugly looking boils around them, and I’m sure my skin must be ripped on the bottom and in the nook where my foot meets my ankle.
Ugh.
Stupid blue sandals.
Before I can answer him, he comes down on his knees. Those fingers of his vanish from around my arm and grip my left ankle. I have no choice but to hold on to his shoulders, his very hard and curved shoulders that ripple under his threadbare t-shirt as he moves my foot this way and that.
“What are you doing?” I ask his bowed head.
His finger traces the arch of my foot and my toes wiggle. “How’d you get these?”
I try to extricate my leg but his grasp tightens. “It doesn’t matter. I –”
“They’re bleeding. Insanely,” he snaps, as if I’m an imbecile.
As if I haven’t noticed.
I fist his t-shirt to keep my balance. “I know. I can see and feel, thank you very much. And it’s not my fault that they’re bleeding. It’s yours.”
He looks up. “What?”
“Yes. I’ve been walking for miles because I wanted to see you. So it’s your fault.”
It’s irrational but at the same time, it makes complete sense to me.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why didn’t you call a cab or something?”
I sigh sharply at the look on his face. He knows the answer. He probably overheard it the other day when I was talking to Tina.
“You know why,” I tell him with gritted teeth. “Now, let my ankle go.”
There’s a clench in his jaw and finally, he comes to his feet. Sighing, I wiggle my toes on the hardwood floor in freedom.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“Go where?”
He tips his chin forward. “To the bathroom.”
“What?” I lean back from him like he’s making a play to grab me. “Why?”
“So I can murder you and dump your body,” he deadpans. “It’ll be easier to clean all that blood up in the bathroom.”
I scoff. “Funny. You wouldn’t murder me.”
“Wouldn’t I?” he says softly.
“No. Because if I die, you can’t torture me.”
He shoots me a long look. “You know this is breaking and entering, don’t you? I remember locking my door. So either let me dress your wounds or I’m calling the cops on you.”
“Did you hear yourself?” I ask, exasperatedly. “Are you saying if I don’t let you take care of me, you’ll have me arrested?”
Still staring at me, he gets out his phone from his back pocket. “Since it’s Saturday, you won’t make bail until Monday. You’ll definitely be fired and on top of that, to come up with bail money, you’ll have to dip into your savings – savings that I hear you were keeping aside to make a payment on your old house.”
“You’re a psychopath, you know that?”
“It’s your choice,” he says, coolly.
“Fine. You want to dress my wounds? Be my guest. I don’t even care. I’ve gone crazy, anyway. I’ve completely lost my mind because I’m here. I came into your room like an idiot. So yeah.”
Muttering to myself, I start to limp in the direction of the bathroom but a hiss escapes me when blisters pop with the pressure.
Behind me, Zach curses and I barely suppress a shriek when he lifts me in his arms, bridal-style, and strides over to the bathroom. I have very little choice but to fist his shirt and coil my hand around his neck.
The whole thing is over in less than five seconds and the next thing I know, he’s sitting me down on the marble countertop of his sink. I’m on the side, my legs dangling.
I think I should say something, show my stance that I’m against him picking me up like this. But my breaths are still shaken up and my feet are still throbbing, and I can’t form words.
A second later, Zach sits in front of me, on the closed toilet seat, and spreads out the first-aid box right next to me on the counter.
Then he circles his large fingers around my ankle once again and puts my foot on his thigh.
I suck in a breath at how hard it is, the muscles there. It’s like putting my foot up on a rock. A very warm rock.
The smell of antiseptic fills the space as Zach dabs some on a cotton ball with deft, expert movements.
“You didn’t have a meeting, did you?” I ask, instead of focusing on very weird feelings he’s invoking in me by his gentle ministrations.
With easy flicks of his hand, Zach cleans the cuts on my toes. My foot jerks with the sting but he holds it in place. “Nope.”
I curl my fingers at the edge of the counter. “You made it up.”
He finishes up with one foot and switches over to the next. He treats it the same way. Carefully cleans the area, dabs at the blood and puts the band-aid on.
Throwing away the soiled cotton balls, he shuts the first aid box and stands, making himself taller and intimidating. “I did.”
I want to stand too, so we can be on equal footing, but he doesn’t give me space. He’s crowding me and I crane my neck up to look at him.
“So you could ruin my date,” I conclude.
“Was this your first date with him?”
His eyes move over my features and I squirm in my seat. “Why?”
“Because he looked broken up about it.” He scans my rumpled blue curls and I tuck a strand behind my ear. “Like he wanted to be with you rather than driving me around for no reason.”
“Of course he wanted to be with me. What did you think? We had a date, you idiot. We’d been planning to go out for days.”
“Yeah, about that. Why didn’t you?” he asks, casually.