Page 88 of Adam
Ugh. He can put his hands on whoever he wants. Obviously. Why wouldn’t he? I don’t own him. I don’t even want to own him. Do I?
No. No, that’s insane.
And yet …
I can feel it crawling under my skin, this stupid, pointless, baseless need.
He’s not allowed to lay a finger on me because, according to my dear father, I’m some sort of endangered species, strictly hands-off.
So why does it feel wrong imagining his hands on anyone else?
Why does that thought make my pulse spike like I’m losing something I never even had?
God, what is wrong with me?
Why do I care?
Why do I careso much?
Why do I care at all?
We get home before I even register it. I wasn’t paying attention to the road at all.
As always, he circles the car, opens my door, and offers me his hand. My eyes stay on his a moment too long, before I shove his hand away and climb out on my own, heading for the house barefoot.
I feel shattered. Pathetic, maybe. Spoiled? Probably.
But right now, I don’t care. Not even a little.
Inside, the staff stare at me silently, as if I’ve come out of a horror movie. Typical. I hope my parents are already asleep—or gone for good—and I won’t run into them.
Father dragged me to meet that old relic for some grand purpose I was never deemed worthy of hearing, and of course the whole thing imploded for yet another reason I’m apparently not allowed to know.
Because in this charming little universe, I’m not supposed to be spoken to, touched, or informed about anything that involves me.
It’s almost funny, being treated like classified material in my own life. Or whatever the hell that means.
When I reach my room, the door shuts behind me, and somehow, the sound only sharpens the mess inside my chest.
Is this despair?
At least my parents are nowhere to be seen.
“Now what?” I mumble to myself, letting out a long exhale.
Suddenly, the door opens, making me jolt in surprise.
“Ever heard of knocking?”
It’s him. And yeah, he walked in like the place belonged to him. I should be pissed that he didn’t knock, that he just strolled into my space. But the messed-up part is that I’m not. I’m just annoyed that I actually care he’s here, and I’m trying way too hard not to let him see it. Hell, I’m practically begging for his attention while trying to look mentally healthy. Pathetic, right?
“You forgot these,” he says calmly, handing me my sandals.
“They’re torn anyway.”
“I tried to fix them a little, but I’m afraid you’ll need a new pair.” He holds them out to me again.
He did what?
