Page 24

Jax sits at the kitchen table, his back to me as he talks to Ryan about something. The two of them have been here for the better part of an hour, their focus solely on the discussion at hand.

With the sound of the running water in front of me and the kettle coming to a boil, I can’t quite hear everything they’re saying, but even though I can’t see Jax’s face, I know the conversation is intense. Jax barely moves, and if it weren’t for the occasional frustrated sigh, I’d think he was a statue. Ryan is sitting across from him and I can see his emotions written clearly across his face, a mix of frustration, anger, and annoyance as their conversation continues.

I zone out from their conversation, knowing I could join them if I wanted to, but uninterested in spending the rest of my night talking business after spending hours this week trying to learn the ins and outs of their operation at Poison Ivy. I was relieved to hear that I’m able to do most of the work from his office and I won’t have to go back to the club too often. A small part of me misses it there, but the rest of me balks at the idea of going back on a regular basis. The aftershocks of my visit this week has weighed heavily on me and nightmares have plagued me constantly since.

I dip my hands into the hot water in front of me, searching for the dishes that have been submerged. The heat bites at my wrists, but I find comfort in the sensation as I pick up the first of the dinner plates to wash. Jax has a dishwasher, but I’ve been doing my dishes by hand since I moved out of my parents’ house so it’s practically a habit by now—not to mention there’s something peaceful about this. I dip my hands into the water again as a few bubbles float past my face, reminding me of summers spent outside as a child, chasing them around the yard. I think about the innocence and safety in my life that I used to be so blissfully unaware of, able to take it for granted as I spent my days playing.

I lift a plate out of the water, rinsing it off after a final scrub with the bright sponge in my hand, and carefully stack it next to the rest.

Wash.

Rinse.

Repeat.

Everything around me fades as I repeat the mundane task in front of me, and I allow my thoughts to wander wherever they want.

Bad. Idea. Evi.

I hear the warning but refuse to listen to it, perhaps tired of spending so much energy keeping everything locked down. A part of me is curious about where my thoughts will go if I give them free rein, if I’ll find any sense of my old self deep within me.

My thoughts go a mile a minute, and I’m flooded by the memories that keep replaying in my brain. Getting dropped off for my last shift, walking through the heavy doors and into Poison Ivy. The crunch of the gravel parking lot. The masked figure in front of me. Rhett. Bryce. Tanner. And everything I felt during my time away from here. My thoughts spiral until I start to feel physically sick, overwhelmed by the dark memories.

It’s too much. It’s all too much to handle.

I let my hands sink beneath the water as I lose myself in the thoughts that swirl around my head.

Who am I anymore? Am I still the same person I was before all of this? How could that even be possible?

My breathing starts to pick up and I try to ground myself, to take deep breaths just like Jax has helped me with countless times.

I count slowly as I try to steady my breathing, try to bring myself back to the present moment, but it doesn’t work this time. Instead, the habit I’ve come to rely on, the one that reminds me I’m still here, still me, and helps me make sense of everything inside of me, rears its ugly head. Without thinking twice my fingernail begins to create a slow, deliberate motion over the side of my thumb over and over again until my nail bites through the raw skin, and I feel the sting deep within me. But it doesn’t calm me. I keep scratching, harder and faster, waiting for the relief to come, waiting for the physical pain to distract me from my thoughts, but it doesn’t. I close my eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay while I try not to spiral, try not to think about what I’ll do if this stops working, stops calming me down.

I jump as I hear a clang, opening my eyes and scanning the room, only to find Ryan looking right at me, his brow furrowed and eyes searching mine, the glass in his hand sitting firmly on the table.

He raises an eyebrow as if to say, ‘Are you okay?’

I nod quickly before I get back to washing the remaining dishes, picking up the forks, the spoons, and then the knives, one at a time and washing them slowly.

I pause as I wash a paring knife, its handle light in my hand, as I carefully move the sponge over the razor-sharp blade at the other end.

The sudsy water makes my hand slip and the sharp edge of the knife catches the tip of my finger. I draw in a breath, quickly assessing the damage. A small bead of blood pools before running down my finger, and it doesn’t hurt at all.

By the time I wash and dry my hands, the bleeding has stopped, and neither Jax or Ryan are aware of what has just transpired.

I let them know that I’m headed to bed, and they look up from their conversation for only a second before getting right back to whatever it is they’re planning.

I turn around and walk out of the kitchen, but not before discreetly grabbing the knife off the counter.

*

I breathe a sigh of relief once I make it to the bedroom, shutting the heavy door behind me.

I don’t know why I’m so on edge, this is as much my house as it is theirs at this point, and it’s not as if they are keeping tabs on all the kitchen utensils.

I walk over to the bed, the hard floors cold against my feet, and not for the first time I can’t help but think of my old apartment and how much I miss walking on wooden floors.

I crawl on top of the plush duvet, resting my back against the headboard, and stare at the knife in my hands.

Before I can think about why I took it there’s a gentle knock at the door. I jump and quickly hide the blade behind my pillow just as the door begins to open and Ryan lets himself in.

“You forgot to make your tea,” he says, gesturing to the steaming mug in his left hand.

“Oh, thanks,” I say, as I realize I completely forgot about the kettle I had boiling as I washed up the dishes.

He walks towards the bed, and it always amazes me how graceful he is despite his sheer size. He sets the tea down softly on the nightside table, and the smell of chamomile and lavender immediately floats towards me. He turns around, but rather than head towards the door as I expected, he sits on the edge of the bed and takes a deep sigh.

“I thought we were past all of this,” he says with a look I can’t quite decipher.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ryan shrugs nonchalantly, but his eyes tell a different story.

“Don’t start running from yourself again, Evi. You worked too hard to find peace with who you are and what you’ve been through.”

I look at Ryan, and when our eyes meet I see a level of care and concern I’m not used to anyone except Jax showing me.

I sigh, whether in annoyance or defeat, I’m not too sure.

“Are you going to take it off me?”

“Are you planning on killing yourself with it?”

“What? No!” I feel like his words are a slap across the face.

“Then why do you have it? Why would you need a knife in your room?”

“You’ll think I’m insane if I tell you…” I trail off, suddenly nervous at saying the words aloud.

“Even if I did think that, Jax would never forgive me if I had you institutionalized, so out with it,” he says playfully, and I appreciate his effort to lighten the mood.

I look down at my hands that are fidgeting in my lap.

“Sometimes… sometimes the pain becomes too much.” I take a breath, trying to collect my thoughts and struggling to put them into words. “It’s as if everything that’s inside of me—everything that I’m feeling—just needs a way out. Like there’s a literal hurricane trapped inside my body and no matter what I do, no matter how many deep breaths I take, it just keeps raging within me, destroying everything in its path. And I can’t make sense of it. I don’t know how to calm it down, how to soothe what I’m feeling, until…”

“Until something distracts you from the emotional pain?”

“Yes. And no.” I look at him, finding understanding and compassion in his eyes. “It distracts me, but it grounds me more than anything. It brings me back to where I am now, and gives me something I can focus on, something I can control. It’s… soothing. And it’s almost as if when I see my skin turn red and the blood start to pool that I’m letting everything that’s trapped inside of me out; like the hurricane can finally leave my body. That, and then finally how I feel on the inside matches how my skin looks and feels on the outside. I know how this sounds, it’s fucked up.”

“It sounds like it makes perfect sense,” Ryan says casually, and surprise flickers through me at his declaration.

“It does?”

“Yup.”

“That’s it?” He looks at me and raises an eyebrow in question. “Like, no speech about how stupid I am or how dumb this is? No referral to a psychologist and a white padded room?”

“Do you want me to do all of that?” he asks with a small smile.

“I mean, no. But I just wasn’t expecting… I don’t know what I was expecting.”

“Just do yourself a favor”—he leans over and grabs the knife handle that must have been peeking out from behind my pillow—“don’t use something that could take a limb off if you slip.”

He twirls the knife around his hand casually, not taking his eyes off me.

“And you’d be better off using something disposable, it’s more sanitary that way.” He pauses before looking at the angry skin on top of my thumb. “And get yourself a good antibiotic ointment if you’re doing this.”

“You’re encouraging me to do this?” Confusion sweeps over me as I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.

“No, I’m telling you how to be safer if you choose to do this,” he says, absentmindedly playing with the tassels on the throw blanket beside him.

“And you know how to be safer because…”

“Because my extracurricular activities are a little… different than yours.”

He gives me a devilish grin as my jaw drops.

“You do this for… fun… with people? Like people want you to do this to them and you get…Wait. Nope, never mind. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.” I shake my head and can’t help but smile, feeling lighter having talked to him.

Ryan lets out a laugh before standing up, the knife still being twirled around by skillful, and apparently experienced, fingers.

“This will be back in the kitchen”—he gestures to the knife in his hands—“and I hope you know I have to let Jax know about this.”

I swallow nervously at the thought.

“Do you think he’ll still look at me the same when he knows what’s going on up here?” I gesture to my head.

Ryan pauses before answering me.

“I don’t think there’s anything you could say to him that would make him care any less about you, if that’s what you’re worried about. And I think that once you start talking to him about everything you’re thinking, his response might surprise you.”

Ryan gives me a smile as he leaves the room, and I think about everything he said as the door clicks shut behind him.