Angela Morrison - Sing Me to Sleep

Derek puts the pot in the sink and turns on the faucet. “The secret is to cook the pasta al dente and finish it in the sauce so it sucks up the flavor.”

“Naw.” Scott glares at me. “My mom’s expecting me.”

“He won’t poison you—I promise.”

Derek laughs. “Then what will I do with all this hemlock I’ve got chopped up?”

“You—” I point to Derek. “Shut up and let us study.”

Scott and I struggle through another half hour, trying to decipher lecture notes with Derek humming and chopping and frying behind us.

“This is truly a culinary masterpiece.” Derek walks around the island with a plate of steaming pasta in each hand. “Sure you don’t want some, Scott?”

“I guess I better go.”

Derek puts the plates down at the far end of the table. “I guess you better.”

Scott slams his book shut and grabs his notes and backpack.

I look up at Derek. “We’re not done.”

Scott shoves his stuff in his pack. “I’ll see you at school.” He won’t look at me.

I follow him to the door. “Thanks. Maybe we can finish Wednesday. I’ve got choir tomorrow.”

His eyes are full of hurt. “You want to?”

“I can’t get that stuff in Chapter Six.”

The pain in his eyes eases. “Okay.” He drops his voice. “My house?”

“Sure.”

Derek is sitting, staring at the steam rising from his pasta. “How long has this been going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“Private tutoring.”

I take a big bite of pasta and chew.

“At least now I know why you say you’re too busy to work on this with me.” He lays the folded-over sheets of paper on the table between us.

I swallow. “School is crazy hard this semester. And econ is my worst, deadliest subject.”

“You seemed to enjoy it with Scott.”

“Why were you so nasty to him? I thought you liked Scott—at least that I had such a good friend.”

“I thought you’d be upfront with me. Going behind my back? That isn’t like you.”

“I need to preapprove all my study plans with you?”

He snorts. “Studying?”

“That’s all we did.” I put down my fork and glare at my plate of pasta.

Derek leans closer to me. “And what did you do last night or the one before when I wasn’t here?”

“That’s a nasty thing to say.” I turn my head and meet the storm in his eyes, unleash one of my own. “I’m not the one holding you at arm’s length. I’m not the one who can’t ever get together. I’m not the one who won’t take his girlfriend over to his house to meet his parents. I’m not the one who disappears off the face of the earth for days at a time with zero explanation. I’m not the one who comes up with wild, impossible plans. I’m not the one—”

“Sorry. I thought you were.” He puts down his fork, picks up the papers. “I’ll quit bugging you.” He stands up and looks around for his jacket.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting out of your way. Call Scott and tell him I’m dumped, and you can finish whatever you two really planned to do.” His face goes from angry to sincere little boy devastation. Quite an act.

“No way.” I glare at him. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy. Sit down and eat.”

He obeys.

We both shovel pasta and chew.

He swallows first. “It’s obvious. I’m making you miserable.”

“That’s not true.”

He reaches across the table and touches my cheek. “That’s not a happy face, Beth.”

I catch his hand, hold it on my face. “If you would just—”

“It’ll probably get worse before it gets better.” He gets out of his chair and crouches next to mine.

I look down at his deep, tortured eyes, the concern spread across his brow. “ Will it get better?”

“Maybe. No guarantees.” He stands up. “Go be happy with Scott, and I’ll disappear.”

I get to my feet. “Don’t you dare.” I put both hands on his chest. “I couldn’t live if you left me.”

“No. Don’t say that.” He grabs a hold of my hands. His are cold. “Don’t put that on me.”

“Too late.” I lean toward his trembling lips. “You’re stuck.” He lets me kiss him. “I’d rather be miserable loving you, than happy with anyone else.”

He kind of devours me at that point. Good thing Mom keeps the kitchen floor so clean because we don’t make it to the couch. We sink down, roll around, get lost in lips like we did back in Lausanne during that concert.

I sit up and squirm out of my hoodie so I’ve just got a tank left on. I skipped the bra today. He stares—then pulls me back down beside him. I meet his lips, wrap my legs around him. He kisses me back, then chews on my bare shoulder, smoothes his hands across my back. His lips slide to my neck, down my throat. He presses his face on my chest. I’m dying for his skin. I need to get my lips on his body. I unzip his sweatshirt, go for his T-shirt.

He grabs my wrists. “Don’t do that.”

I fight to get my hands free. He distracts me, kissing my lips again. I stop fighting him. He relaxes his grip but doesn’t let go. We’re locked together. I roll onto my back, bring him along so he’s on top. I stretch my arms, with his still attached, up over my head, and go crazy kissing him. He lets go of my wrists, runs his hands down my arms—

I grab the back of his T-shirt, fast, yank hard.

He wrenches free, pushes away from me. “Damn it, Beth.” He pulls his shirt back down, but I see the Band-Aid on his stomach—in the same place it was in Lausanne. “I said don’t.”

I lay on the floor stunned. Ice-cold misery flows through me, twisting the fiery passion that throbs me into stark pain.

Damn it, Beth.

Damn it, Beth.

Damn it, Beth.

Then Derek is back on me, but he’s not the same person now. His kisses are too deep, out of control. He presses his body against mine, too hard, jamming me into the unyielding tile floor. I go nuts, try to fight him off. He fights back—overpowers me.

I yell, “You’re hurting me, Derek! ”

He groans and rolls on his side. “Damn it, Beth. I don’t want to hurt you.” He grabs his hair and kind of chokes. “I don’t want to hurt you, but—”

I scramble to my feet and gather up my sweatshirt. I hurry to the far side of the room, turn, holding my sweatshirt up like a shield. My other arm is out, hand raised to ward him off. I’m trembling, terrified. Damn it, Beth. Damn it, Beth. That’s all I can hear. He’s saying something else, but it doesn’t get through.

Isn’t this exactly what I want? What I’ve dreamed of? What I’ve begged him for? Why am I flipping out? I want the heat to surge again, but it’s frozen into a dagger, cutting me inside. “Go away, Derek.”

“Damn it, Beth. We can’t leave it like this.” He starts to cough.

I run up the stairs to my room, lock the door, press against it. I brace for him to follow and pound on it, knowing I’ll let him in, remembering I love him, reassuring myself I want this. He’ll be gentle. He’ll be sweet. He won’t hurt me.

He’ll tell me everything after this. We’ll share everything after this.

I wait and wait.

No steps on the stairs.

No gentle knock.

No voice whispering that he loves me, he wants me, he needs me.

Only the creak of the kitchen door and the brutal sound of his motorcycle tearing open the silence of the night.

chapter 27

TREATMENT?

Ihate my mother for telling me all that crap about my father.

I hate him for calling me damn ugly.

I hate Derek.

I hate music.

I hate singing.

I hate pasta.