Page 17 of Heavy

Why am I doing this again? It’s not like I have much of a choice now, but it doesn’t make the situation any less maddening.

Really, though, this frustration has roots that go deeper. If my mom hadn’t been the way she was, I wouldn’t even be in this position. Blaming her now is pointless, I know, but it still gnaws at me. Sometimes, I can’t help but think that if cancer had taken her instead of my dad, I’d be long gone by now, hundreds of miles from my dark past.

I’ve been muttering to myself, lost in these thoughts, while standing by my red Mustang. Not sure how long I’ve been lingering here when I hear the sound of boots crunching on gravel. Looking up, I see Ronan coming my way. He’s got his hands tucked into the pockets of dark blue jeans held snug by a black belt, and he’s wearing a fitted white shirt. Draped between his wrist and hip is a leather jacket. A bit much given the high eighties forecast, but I’m not going to question his style choices. Especially not when he looks this good.

He stops a foot before me and cocks his eyebrow, again, the one that says ‘SIT’.

“Ready?” I ask, realizing a second too late how obvious the question is. Of course he’s ready; he wouldn’t be standing here waiting with that expectant look if he weren’t.

He nods, walking around to the passenger side and pulling the door open. “You had to be a basic white girl and get the red one, huh?”

Goddamn, he’s an asshole—a tall one at that. He leans over my car with one arm resting casually on the roof, head tilted just enough to meet my eyes, clearly waiting for me to respond to his smug remark.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a retort. Instead, I ask, “How tall are you by the way?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Research.”I’m going to bury that smart ass of his behind the cabin, so I’ll need the dimensions. Obviously I can’t say that because that’s psychotic. “I want to make sure the frames of the doors are better suited for someone your height.” That’s a good excuse. “I see you having to duck when you walk into the master bedroom.”

He rolls his eyes as he slides into the car and I let out a heavy, nervous sigh before getting in myself. Once I’m settled, I steal a quick glance his way. He’s busy adjusting the seat all the way back and buckling his seatbelt—suddenly a law-abiding citizen, it seems.

“I’m serious, Ronan, height please?” I push the ignition button and listen as the car purrs to life.

“Six foot-seven, give or take on certain days.”

“Thanks,” I say as I square my shoulders forward. “I’m five-eight.”

“I know.” He crosses his arms and stares out the window. Stupid butterflies fight each other in my stomach at the remark. I should find it creepy, even weird, that he knows my exact height. Then again, there’s a good chance he’s just messing with me, fishing for a reaction.

I put the car into reverse and get us moving without giving him one.

The only words he says during the fifteen-minute drive are directions. I had to plug in the address myself, which led us to a small garage wedged between a sandwich shop and a bookstore. The metal door covered in graffiti, is closed, but Ronan doesn’t seem to care.

As he is opening the door, I clear my throat. “Do you… need me to pick you up?”

He turns, glancing over his shoulder, and his gaze drifts to my lap where I’m awkwardly fidgeting with my fingernails. Unfortunately, it’s also where my bare thighs are—my skirt, though knee-length, has ridden up to mid-thigh during the drive. I’d hoped he wouldn’t notice and didn’t want to draw attention by pulling it down.

When he meets my gaze, he shakes his head and gets out.

I finally exhale the breath I'd been holding as the door slams shut. He’s so intimidating that I know I should be running as far from him as possible. If I truly had a choice, I think I would.

“You are so fucking sick, Calista, seek help.”

Dropping my head back against the headrest, I shut my eyes.

I’ve been chasing true fear ever since the moment I was first introduced to it. Not because I enjoy it, but because I’m trying to regain control over it. Talking about what happened only helps so much, and everyone interprets my desire to confront it as a sign that I’m sick in the head.

Maybe I am, but what I want helps. I know it could get me killed one day, perhaps by Ronan, or maybe not. It’s possible that once I close this chapter of my life, things will improve and I won’t feel the need to seek out the disgusting, vile things that haunt me. But deep down, something tells me it will only make it worse.

A knock at my window jolts me and I turn my head to see Ronan, his finger swirling in a gesture that tells me to open the window.

Oh, fuck.

I press the button, the window rolling down automatically. “Sorry, I—”

“I didn’t know I needed to spell it out for you,” he says as he leans down into my window. His face a few inches from mine. “Go, and I don’t need to be picked up.” The spearmint on his breath wafts into my nose, but it’s the scent of his body wash that has me inhaling sharply, eager to take in more of it.

I’m reaching for the gearstick when he leans in and takes my wrist. “Also.” I meet his gaze, as he says, “Get new body wash. I tossed yours out this morning. Donotget the same smell.” My mouth opens but he continues. “It fucking stinks.”