Free Lie to Me by Chloe Cox Page B

this memory is in the walled-off garden, too. Sometimes I can’t bear to remember what I’ve lost.
    Would it be different now? Of course it would. It would have to be. I was so nervous, wound so tight, even though I wasn’t quite scared, because it was Marcus. And he was so huge above me, so overwhelming, and that was the final time I felt like I drowned in him, his shoulders blotting out the light, his arms cradling me on either side. He was so gentle, stretching me softly, treating me like I might break even as he stoked a fever in me that drove me nearly insane with wanting him.
    Oh God, the intensity of that. Wanting him so badly, all at once, in a rush, like I just couldn’t wait anymore. And he made me wait. Later, I learned that I liked it when he took control, even when he was rough.
    It is so weird to be thinking about this. Part of me is horrified. I know what rough actually means now; I know how scary it can get in the real world, and it’s turned me off men and relationships. Until now.
    I can’t help it.
    My hand moves south, over my stomach, down between my legs, almost of its own accord. I’m not even totally conscious of it; it’s just something that feels right, the more I think about him. But the Marcus in my mind isn’t the Marcus I remember from that first time; he’s different, darker. Rougher.
    My mind shies away now every time I flash on the tenderness of that first night. I don’t want tenderness from him anymore. Or I can’t bear it. It hurts too much to imagine him touching me softly.
    I want him hard.
    And when I come, splashing water on the clean marble floors, I realize I’m crying. Because I do want him. Because I do need something from him, no matter how much that frightens me. I need those answers. I need that closure.
    And Marcus helped make me into the kind of person who takes control of their life. I’m not just someone who watches on the sidelines. I take charge.
    I get up from the bath, soaking the floor in water, not caring even a little bit, and walk over to where I put my phone on the vanity. I put Marcus’s number in it, just in case. I don’t hesitate. I send a simple text: “You have a deal.”
    And only then do I realize that I’ve stopped breathing again. I suck in a huge gulp of air and promise myself that I will get answers. I will learn why he left like that, why he hurt me.
    And that will make it better. After that, I’ll be able to move on.
    Thinking about this starts to make me crazy, as it inevitably does when I think about people I’ve lost or could lose, and I pad quickly down the hall on wet feet so I can pull some sweatpants and a t-shirt on. I don’t even bother to towel off my hair before I’m tiptoeing to Dill’s room.
    I know it’s not fair, but I won’t be able to sleep until I see that he’s safe.
    Which he is, of course. The sliver of light from where I’ve cracked the door open falls right on his bed, and he’s curled up on his side, sleeping soundly. Or he is until I sneak into his room—I can see the shift in his shoulders, the change in breathing, and I know I’ve woken him up. I feel like a jerk, but it’s not like I can stop myself once the anxiety takes hold. I will be up all night, paralyzed with fear, unless I check up on him.
    He’s kind of gotten used to it a little bit. Something else I feel bad about.
    “You can’t sleep?” he murmurs into his pillow.
    My heart breaks a little bit. Dill shouldn’t have to worry about me. I walk over to him, no longer worrying about the sound I make, and bend down to kiss him on the forehead. He makes a face without opening his eyes, registering little boy disgust at any of that mushy stuff, and so I reach down to give him the world’s gentlest noogie on the top of his head.
    “Just getting my noogies in before you go away to camp,” I whisper.
    He smiles sleepily, excited by programming camp even when he’s half-asleep. “’S not for two days.”
    “You’ll be gone for six