-Becca-

haunt

hɔːnt/

verb

be persistently and disturbingly present in (the mind).

I watch from the living room window as Josh crosses his arms over his chest, his face red and his eyes flaming with anger. The same anger I’d heard in his voice—the same voice that made my insides turn to stone and I knew that whatever was happening—I needed to save Tommy.

Josh stands opposite the woman I assume is his mom as his shoulders slowly drop and the anger in his eyes fade. His mouth parts and he nods once, opening the door wider for them.

“What happened?” Grams asks from behind me.

I turn to her. “Josh has some visitors, I guess.”

“Can we play in your room?” Tommy asks with a smile. I take his hand and lead him upstairs, wondering if he has any idea that his life’s about to change. Because I do. I can sense it.

I keep an eye on the time, watching the minutes turn to hours and nothing. Not a phone call. Not a single text. I give Tommy a bath and start to get him ready for bed. Just as I finish dressing him and get him settled in my room, there’s a knock on the door. “I’ll be back. Stay here, okay?”

Josh stands with his hands in his pockets and his head lowered. I look over his shoulder and notice that Robby’s car is gone.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing. Is Tommy still up?”

“Yeah, he’s in my room watching TV.”

“Can you get him?”

“Is everything okay? You guys talked for a long time.”

He sighs, seemingly frustrated by my question. “Everything’s fine, Becca. I just really don’t want to talk about it. Not now and probably not ever.”

“Josh—”

“Can you just get my son, please!”

I clear my throat, hoping the strength of my voice hides my weakness. “I think maybe Tommy should stay here tonight.”

“You know what I think?” he snaps, pinning me with his glare. “I think maybe you should keep your opinions to yourself.”

My stomach drops, so does my gaze, and it stays that way as I run upstairs, get Tommy and bring him back down.

Once they’re gone, I take myself up to my room and into my bed, where I do something I’d spent the majority of life doing—I cry my silent cries and wear my silent tears.

But I don’t question any of it—because if there’s anyone who knows how quickly things can change—how someone’s love can turn to anger in the blink of an eye—it’s me.

I hear her voice. It echoes in my mind. “He doesn’t love you,” she says over and over. After an hour of crying into my pillow, I start to believe her. “No one can love you like I do,” she haunts.

My phone rings.

It’s Josh, of course. I reject the call and a second later a text comes through.

Joshua: I’m at your door. Please, Becca.

I gather whatever strength I have left, wipe my stupid tears, and meet him outside. His hands are in his pockets again and his head’s lowered. I do everything I can to hide any proof I’d spent the last hour crying over him. But it doesn’t work because after he inhales sharply and slowly lifts his gaze to mine, he whispers, “Fuck,” and then reaches up and cups my face, tilting my head back so he can look at me. “Did I do this?”

I turn away from his touch and away from his sympathetic eyes.

“Becca, I’m so sorry.”

But I don’t believe him because I’m mad and I’m hurt and like she said, he doesn’t love me. Yet, when he touches me from my face, down my arm, and to my hand, I let him take it. I let him lead me away and up to his apartment, to his room, where he closes the door behind him.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, and I want to forgive him. But it doesn’t take back how he made me feel, and how my fucked up mind responded to those feelings. “What happened?” I ask while he goes through his drawers and pulls out clothes for me to wear.

He sighs and drops his head as he sits on the edge of the bed. He stays silent while he hands me his boxers and I change into them, rolling the band over so they fit. He looks up now, and for the first time, I see the redness in his eyes and the puffiness that surrounds them.

He doesn’t speak, though—just places his hands on my hips and slowly glides them up my sides, taking my top with them. I lift my arms, my eyes on his as he removes my shirt, and I just want to yell at him to give me something. Anything. His eyes drift shut and his arms circle my waist, pulling me to him. The roughness of his cheek presses against my bare stomach. “Don’t, Becca. Not now.”

I swallow loudly, the pain of what feels like rejection filters through every surface of my body and it hurts. It hurts so damn bad. But then he kisses me, just under my navel and I close my eyes and submerge myself in the feeling of his touch, of his kiss, of his mouth as it lowers. His fingers, warm, curl around my shorts and my underwear and he tugs them down, past my hips and down my legs until they’re on the floor by my feet and I feel the cool air between my legs. He moves lower again and my eyes shut tight when I feel his lips against my mound. I choke on a gasp when his tongue, slow and wet, moves between my legs. He moans from deep in his throat and pulls back, his eyes focused on my chest; heaving as I struggle for breath. Then he reaches behind me, unhooks my bra and, with one arm around me and the other covering a breast, he pulls me over him as he lies down on the bed. He flips us until I’m on my back and he’s on his side and then he takes my nipple between his lips while his hand’s between my legs with two fingers inside me. I comb my fingers through his hair and move with him as he continues to kiss, suck, and lick down my body until he’s on the floor. He stands up and chews his lip while his eyes slowly roam my naked body. Then he grabs my ankles, rough and demanding, and pulls them down until I’m on the edge of the bed. He drops to his knees; his palms flat against my thighs as he pushes them apart. My back arches as his lips make contact with my sex, my eyes wide, my vision blurred while his tongue, his mouth, his fingers, work me to the edge. I lick my lips, my mouth dry, my hands gripping the sheets beneath me.

“Let go, baby,” he murmurs against me.

“Josh,” I whisper, my eyes filling with tears. I want to tell him to stop, that he doesn’t want this. But I know what it’s like to want to feel something, anything, but pain. And I know that’s what he’s doing.

He doubles his efforts and within seconds I’m panting his name over and over. He pushes me over the edge as tears mixed with sweat trickle down my hairline. He waits until I’m settled before running his tongue up my stomach, between my breast, and up to my ear. “Flip over,” he says, but his hand’s already on my waist, guiding me to where he wants me. I wait on all fours while he opens the drawer of his nightstand and rips open the condom packet. I feel one of his hands on my butt, the other on my back as he pushes me down and then pushes inside me. His thrusts are fast, hard and painful. And I can no longer tell if he’s using me, or if I’m using him, but either way we want the physical pleasure to help us forget the pain. So I let him take me, however he wants me. He leans down, his chest pressed against my back and his mouth on my ear. “I’m so sorry,” he says, and I have no idea which part he’s apologizing for. He slows his thrusts, his mouth moving from my ear to my neck, kissing me slow and soft.