Page 27 of The Intimacy of Skin

The concept of the future scared me more often than not.

Whenever I thought too hard or too far into a phase of life I wasn’t in yet, I got anxious.

Sometimes, the anxiety would be comforting.

It felt like a call to younger me, the version of myself I spent years controlling.

Other times—like now—it felt horrifying. Itchy.

For the last eight years, I had lived on a day-to-day or week-to-week schedule. I didn’t have a five-year plan like they begged us to create in high school. All I knew was that I lived, breathed, and cooked until I could fall asleep and do it again.

I didn’t know what exactly I wanted from Crew; however, I knew I wanted more.

Actually, I wanted it all. I wanted him.

But Crew was… mysterious and flighty. He was unpredictable as hell, which sent me into an internal spiral. To understand my thoughts, I had to think about the future and whether I wanted him there with me.

If I thought about the future, I got itchy. When I got itchy, I wanted to scratch. Maim. Fucking rip my skin to shreds. Touching him made my skin stop crawling, but then I had to let go, and it came rushing back.

The broken part of my brain had decided I couldn’t have a break unless Crew were in my presence which was highly irrational and incredibly frustrating.

Especially since Willow, his best friend and roommate, had decided to hate me.

The fury laced in her voice was too familiar.

The pitch was just below my mother’s, sending chills down my spine immediately.

I’d practically malfunctioned listening to her, transported back in time to when I was a kid, cooking in the kitchen to avoid the screaming match Mom and Dad were having in their bedroom.

I understood where Willow was coming from. Truly, I did. I wouldn’t have expected anything less if she loved Crew the way I hoped she had.

It was comforting to know he had someone in his corner, yet terrifying to know my second impression of someone so important in his life went so terribly.

The rest of the day passed by slowly. I waited for a text or a call, giving up when six o’clock came and I’d heard nothing. The sun had set, leaving nothing but city lights to shine through the tiny slots in my window curtains.

My day could have been spent more productively, though I tried not to dwell on that. There were a million and one things to do, and I had yet to get my ass off the couch in my living room.

Just like the first night I met Crew, I was frozen in place and time. I felt mildly pathetic. A looming sense of doom permanently hovered over my head as I played this morning over and over.

Waking up with Crew in my arms was fucking inexplicable. Nothing would ever compare to the peace I felt or how rested my body was. I only hoped I could do it again. If not, I might lose my mind.

Not for the first time, I found myself missing someone I shouldn’t. I was musing through my phone, chuckling at old text messages or stupid photos from years ago.

Samantha’s contact remained intact in my phone. I hadn’t even blocked her, though I couldn’t say the same on her end. At some point, she stopped answering my calls. And then they started going straight to voicemail. Of course, the little green bubble that used to be blue followed suit.

That was when I knew I’d truly lost my only friend. My first constant in life that spoke back to me rather than sizzled in a pan. I hated thinking about the future because I had never envisioned one without Sam. Then, one day, I no longer had her, and I had no idea what to do about it.

Waking up with her in my arms after a full night of messing around, making fake love until our bones ached, had never felt like it did with Crew. I didn’t know what to do about that either .

After parting ways with Sam, the photos in my photo gallery took an abrupt turn. Not a single one of them included a picture of me. No selfies, no group pictures, not even an accidental reflection from the metal counters at work.

I pulled up my camera app and turned it towards myself. Looking into the lens, I realized two things: I looked nothing like I used to, and I looked like I reeked of loneliness.

I grimaced at myself, swiping away just in time for a text to appear.

Pretty Boy:

Dinner at ur place? We should talk.

Crew was unpredictable, and I thanked whatever watched over us lowly humans for it.

What about the Southern wrath?

Pretty Boy:

Our lives are spared

For now

Dinner?

When?

Pretty Boy:

Is now too soon?

I frowned. Thanks to my self-wallowing, my home was less than visitor friendly. It wasn’t dirty by any means, but more lived-in than I was used to people seeing.

I haven’t cleaned

Pretty Boy:

And I give a shit? Dude, u saw my room, cmon.

He was right.

Ok. You like chicken?

Pretty Boy:

I’m not picky.

Give me ur address before I change my mind tho

“Holy fuck, this is so good.” Crew moaned, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a sinfully orgasmic expression.

“Glad you like it.”

“You should have your own restaurant.”

I huffed out a short laugh, cutting into my food. “I’m not on that level.”

“Not on that level?” He scooped a bite onto his fork, shoving it into his mouth. Without even waiting to swallow, he mumbled through chews. “Sure fuckin’ tastes like it. What even is this? I’ve never had chicken like this, and I’m from the south, so I’ve had a lot of chicken.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “It’s bourbon pecan. Slow down or you’ll choke at this rate.”

He shook his head, gulping his bite loudly. “Nah, I don’t choke. And I hate how you say puh-kahn. ”

“You’re not in the South anymore, Pretty Boy.”

“That’s for fucking sure.”

I couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. It had been a long time since someone enjoyed my food like this. Not the shit I helped cook at work sometimes. Crew ate everything with something like passion, appreciating it even as he inhaled it.

Halfway through my chicken, I finally gathered the courage to speak up. “So, how did it go with Willow?”

Crew paused, setting his fork down in exchange for the glass of water beside him. He shrugged as he sipped. “She misunderstood. We talked a lot, trying to understand each other’s perspectives. She knows how I am and assumed you were like the rest of them.”

“Like the Johns? ”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “But she gets it now. I think. I let it slip that we knew each other before you offered me the job.”

I winced. “Oh, yeah.”

“She wasn’t happy that I didn’t tell her. I told her about how gentle you are, though. That got her attention.” I watched him sloppily cut away at the chicken on his plate. “I thought her face was gonna get stuck the way she looked at me when I said I kissed you.”

A smile tugged at my lips. “Another thing you don’t usually do?”

“More like I’ve never done,” he mumbled, avoiding saying much else by shoveling food into his mouth.

I leaned back in my chair, admiring him for a moment. His cheek was bruised and purple, marring the prominent bone there. “Willow sounds like a good friend. You two seem really close.”

Some of his teeth showed through a warm, genuine smile. “She’s the best friend I’ve ever had. Not that I’ve had many. It was me, her, and my mom against the world for the longest time.”

“What about now?”

“Hm?”

“You said for the longest time. Why not now?”

“Oh.” His nose and eyebrows scrunched together. “My mom is dead. So it’s just Willow and me.”

“I’m sorry you lost her.”

Shoving his now-empty plate away, he rubbed a hand over his stomach. “It was for the best. Dying was the easiest thing she’d ever had to do.”

My eyebrows shot up at the morbidity of his statement. He said it with pure conviction as if he truly believed that deep in his heart. “How did she pass? If I can ask.”

His responding laugh had me jolting. My knee hit the underside of the table, almost knocking my glass over. He hunched over, covering his mouth with his hand.

“Sorry,” Crew mumbled behind his palm. “It’s been a long time since someone’s asked me that.

The last person I told was one of Mom’s old coworkers from the gas station.

When I told her, she turned her face up and said, ‘Well, that’s certainly not what I was expectin’,’ and then told me that everything happens for a reason.

” He made a show of mocking the woman he was talking about, his voice a squeaky pitch with a thick, Southern accent.

I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure what I could say. I let Crew take his time, hoping he’d take my silence as an invitation to continue.

He cleared his throat, sitting back in his seat, appearing to have collected himself. “Lung cancer. The real quick, terrible kind nobody prepares you for.”

“I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.” The moment I said it, something flashed across Crew’s face. Something agonizing I knew he wouldn’t tell me about.

He grabbed our dishes, strolling towards the kitchen sink.

“Sure,” he spoke, his back turned to me.

“I loved my mom. Her life was hard, and I sure as shit didn’t make it any easier.

We did our best to make it through. I always knew she’d die young, but no one expected her smoking to be what did her in.

I also thought I had a bit more time to be an adult with her.

Never thought I’d turn eighteen and immediately have a funeral to attend. ”

The sadness in his voice almost broke me. I wanted to pull him into my arms and absorb every ounce of pain from him while I whispered that everything would be okay.

But I couldn’t, so I came up behind him while he busied himself with the plates. “Let’s sit on the sofa. The dishes can wait.”