I could smell it on my hands at night, the lingering scent of the blissful freedom money allowed. It worked its way into my bloodstream. It overpowered every choice I made, and I knew, the way I knew the rhythm of my own breath, that now that I had a tangible goal to set my sights on, I could get to where I wanted to go. Burke couldn’t. Kyla couldn’t. But I could, and I would. At the end of senior year, just eighteen months down the line, I was going take Gus and get us far, far away from our sad, doomed little town. Nothing was going to stop me.
I couldn’t have seen what was coming. It was impossible to know then what lurked in the shadows of the unfurling future. Five months later, everything changed.
Chapter Ten
Skye
APRIL 2019
It’s been a month to the day since Burke popped the question, and I want to surprise him with his favorite breakfast—blueberry pancakes. Part of the surprise will also be that I’ve gotten up before him—I’m not a morning person, and Burke loves to give me grief over my never being out of bed first. My alarm sounds at six-thirty—an Adele song that I now can’t stand—and I fight the urge to press the snooze button. Dragging my limbs out from under the warm covers is almost painful, but Burke has an early meeting, and I want to do this for him. I imagine the look on his face when I present him with pancakes in bed, and it propels me forward. I grab my coziest robe and pitter-patter into the kitchen to start cooking.
Ever since we got engaged, it’s the simple moments that floor me. As I mix the Bisquick, I gaze lovingly at my ring. I don’t care about the diamond, not really. I care about what the diamond means. I think of Burke just a few feet away in the other room, still slumbering in our bed, and that he’s picked me—that he waited all these years for a woman like me—feels like a miracle.
The first time Burke slept over I was crazy nervous. I wasn’t in the habit of letting guys stay over until I’d set my boundaries—something I’d been working on with Dr. Salam. Setting my boundaries meant getting to know a guy through dating, and forming a trustworthy bond before letting him stay over at my apartment. This was therapist lingo for Don’t fuck on the first date.
I didn’t particularly enjoy sleeping with a guy and never talking to him again, but that was the clear alternative to the inevitable hurt and excruciating shame that came from trying to start a real relationship. It made me feel as if I had some control and power in my interactions with men, and it gave me a vague sense of social validation—I had something to contribute when I found myself in a circle of girls talking about sex, and casually referencing a “one-night stand” always made me sound braver and hotter than I actually felt.
The problem was, nothing had changed in the many years since Colin Buchanan. On more than one occasion I’d opened up about my OCD （both voluntarily and involuntarily） to men I’d developed feelings for, with the belief that these feelings were mutual and strong enough to withstand the truth. But it didn’t work that way, even with Max LaPointe.
Dr. Salam highlighted my problem: sex. She said that when a woman sleeps with a man, her body produces something called oxytocin, and oxytocin often causes a feeling of attachment. In the past, the men I’d attempted to have relationships with were men I’d been sleeping with, and this was why the failed relationships resulted in emotional injury. But if I didn’t sleep with anyone until I’d set my boundaries—aka, give potential lovers the heads-up that they were dealing with a disordered person—then emotional injury was much less likely. Because if the man rejected me anyway, at least no oxytocin was involved. This was Dr. Salam’s reasoning.
But I pushed her voice aside the night I let Burke Michaels sleep over after our very first date. Well, perhaps it was our second date, if you count Montauk.
It came down to pure physics: my body was simply unable to say no. Burke’s warm, dimpled smile filled me with a lulling ease at the same time it made my insides dip and twirl with lust. He was tall, dark, and handsome, the kind of all-American guy I used to imagine myself with when I was a little girl daydreaming of her prince. And I loved that he was older—he was mature and direct and had a thoughtfulness to him that guys my age just seemed to lack.
After our first dinner, at Ippudo, I said I was going to the bathroom and that I’d meet him outside. I didn’t actually have to use the bathroom, but I needed to exit alone. I needed to perform my door routine in the presence of baffled strangers and not of the man whose presence turned my legs to rubber. One two three four five six seven eight; eight seven six five four three two one. It doesn’t seem like that big of a deal, but seeing it—witnessing the sheer oddity of someone needing to knock on a door in a specific pattern before walking through it—is a different story.
I wasn’t ready for the night—for the buzzing electricity between Burke and me—to end. I could claim that my intentions were to send him home after a shot of espresso at my place, but if I’m being honest, I knew I wanted him for the whole night. I watched him sink back into my couch, and I loved the content expression on his face, as if there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. I loved his worn jean jacket, frayed at the collar, the way it reminded me of something authentic and good. He sipped his coffee slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, and when the mug was empty, he placed it down and kissed me expertly, a fizz running up the length of my spine. Something was clicking between us—even from that dizzying first kiss, it was a kind of synchronized connection I’d never felt before. As we moved toward the bedroom, I briefly wondered how old he was—he was certainly older than any other man I’d been with—but I quickly decided I didn’t care.
After it was over, he crashed into sleep, one arm splayed across my torso, and anxiety crept its way into the pit of my stomach as I came back down to earth. My heart thumped loudly in my chest and I tried not to think of what would happen in the morning, or what I’d tell Dr. Salam.
I didn’t sleep a wink. It was still dark hours later when Burke’s phone beeped noisily and I felt him stir beside me.
“Sorry, my alarm.” He leaned over the bed to turn it off. He kissed the back of my neck and my bare shoulder and worked his way around to my lips. “I should’ve mentioned it last night, but I have an early call with this crazy client. He’s in London, so my five-thirty is his ten-thirty. Bastard.”
I liked the sound of Burke’s morning voice, all low and gravelly.
“Go back to sleep.” He touched my nose. “You’re really something, Skye.”
I watched him climb out of bed and search for his clothes, relief drenching my bones. He was leaving. He wasn’t going to linger or suggest we go get breakfast. I wouldn’t be forced to show him the side of me I was desperate to keep hidden, at least for a little while longer. The looming pain was so inevitable I could almost feel it, like a clamp pressing my chest. Dr. Salam had been right; I shouldn’t sleep with men before setting my boundaries.
“You look so peaceful,” Burke whispered as he leaned down to kiss me again. Little did he know. “I’d love to see you again soon, Skye.”
“I’d like that, too,” I murmured.