by Nyla K
Continuing to pick at my pancakes absentmindedly, I’m in a daze watching Lazarus on his phone. His hands are shapely. How have I never noticed how nice they are? Large, and strong, with long fingers and perfectly short, clean nails. The right is covered in tattoos, while the left remains blank.
I’m noticing he doesn’t do a mirroring symmetry with his tattoos. There’s a full sleeve on his left arm that cuts off at his wrist, whereas the right side is more scattered. I like that it’s not forced. He doesn’t just have tattoos for the sake of having them. They all seem to serve a purpose in his body art, and it’s intriguing. I’d love to know what they all mean…
“As much as I enjoy slaving over a stovetop like some kind of fifties housewife, I’d prefer you to actually eat those,” his rumbling voice laced with sarcasm cuts into my daydreaming and I jerk back to reality, blinking a few times.
Glancing up at his face, I see he’s not even looking at me. Still just typing on his phone while scolding me for not eating his pancakes, which means he’s probably fully aware that I’ve been staring at him.
My cheeks flush pink as I grimace at my plate, petulantly stabbing a piece of pancake and shoving it into my mouth. I couldn’t possibly feel more like a kid right now if he painted my face and brought me to Chuck-E-Cheese’s.
These pancakes are pretty good, though.
“You didn’t have to cook me breakfast,” I grumble, forking another bite. “I know you only did it to make my dad happy.”
“I do most things I don’t want to do to make Damien happy.” His tone is steady with boredom. “What’s your point?”
“I don’t like feeling like an obligation.” I sip my juice. “I’d rather cook for myself.”
This time he looks up. Sensing it, my eyes slide to his to find him staring at me, brows zipped together in the subtlest concern I’ve ever seen.
“Do you even know how to cook?”
This wasn’t the point of what I was saying, but it doesn’t stop me from answering him.
“Not really,” I shrug. “I can make scrambled eggs. And spaghetti.”
For reasons I’m not sure I’ll ever understand, this makes him smile. It’s not a big one, but it’s so similar to the one I saw in my dream that it saddles me with the uncanny desire to collapse at his feet and worship him for looking so fucking beautiful out of nowhere.
My breath hitches in my throat and I’m surrounded by warmth. I can’t see anything but that electric smile, so perfect it looks drawn on.
This reaction of mine is completely outrageous. I don’t know what’s happening inside me right now. I can’t move or speak. Time feels like it’s standing still, and I’m inside a bubble with him, floating up up and away.
Really though, it’s only like three seconds before he says, “Spaghetti is awesome. You should make it for me one day.”
The words are spoken so casually, but of course that’s not how my mind interprets them. My brain marinates in those words, using them to concoct images of me cooking him spaghetti while he smiles at me and tells me how delicious it is, and how sweet I am… and that he loves me.
God, get a grip. I clear my throat and force all the madness to the back of my mind, though it doesn’t really get far.
“I guess I could do that…” My voice creaks out of my mouth, and I focus on the plate of pancakes so I don’t have to show him my heart-eyes.
He’s already done paying attention to me, back in his phone. And I’m dizzy. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t understand how or why I’m so lost in this man I’ve known forever. This man who is way too old for me to be getting tingly over. Because that’s exactly what he is.
A man. And I’m a kid.
He’s my dad’s best friend, and I’m a thirteen-year-old with a crush.
In other words, I’m completely screwed.
Chapter Nine
Traci
Dad and I leave the doctor’s office, and I’m doing a poor job of hiding my hopelessness.
It’s been two years since my mother died, and I’m still struggling to push past this.
I don’t feel too bad, because it’s not like my dad’s the picture of emotional stability either, but at least he went back to work. I had to attend summer classes to make up my schoolwork after everything. Luckily I’m good at my studies so I was able to swing it… barely. But all my teachers have since become fed up with my distractedness.
So my father made an appointment for me to see a psychiatrist who prescribed me some medication; a low dose of Adderall to help me concentrate and quiet the noisiness in my mind. I’m not sure what good it’ll do, and I hate the idea of being drugged up. But I can’t deny how off I’ve been, and it’s not getting any better on its own.
When Dad suggested the doctor, I was too tired to even argue with him. We’ve been fighting more lately than we ever have. In an obvious attempt to be optimistic, the doctor told us it can be attributed to the new hormones that are coming along with me developing into a woman. But we both know it’s less about that and more about the buffer between us being gone.
Mom was the one who got me. Dad still sees me as his little girl. Well, saw.
I got my first period the other day.
When I saw the blood, I burst into tears, and not because I was scared, or because of the hormones. It was because I knew my dad would be out of his league and would feel weird talking to me about it.
In that moment, more than anything, I just wanted my mommy. I know it sounds childish, but dammit I’m fourteen. I feel like I’m growing up too fast. I don’t hate it, but it just reminds me I have no woman in my life to help me figure things out. To teach me how to be a woman.
Hours after me and Dad get home, I take my bike and ride to Merci’s house. She gives me a care package of tampons and pads, and tells me which brands she prefers, which is great because it spares me from using wads of toilet paper, or having yet another awkward conversation with Ms. Petrokas. I know how it all works, but it doesn’t make it any less annoying to deal with.
Lying on Merci’s bed, I gaze over all the posters decorating her bedroom walls, pictures of her friends from New York hung up with colorful push-pins. There are a couple boys in her pictures and it has me wondering…
“Have you ever liked a guy who’s not a celebrity?” I ask her while she sits cross-legged on the floor, texting.
“Of course,” she replies without looking up. “Haven’t you?”
“No,” my voice comes out quiet, but she still hears me and glances up from her phone. “I mean, I think Zayn is super hot with all his tattoos. And Harry is cute. Like, a sweetheart…”
“Okay, but other than former members of One Direction,” she giggles, “Haven’t you ever had a crush on one of the boys from school?”
I shake my head slowly. “I’ve noticed a few… They’re okay looking. But they’ve never given me those butterflies, like I get from -” My voice gives out and I swallow. “Never mind.”
“From who?” Merci’s eyes widen as she tosses her phone down. “And you better not name another celebrity.”
“It’s nothing. Forget it.” I chew on my lower lip, praying she won’t make me elaborate.
I’m kind of dying to talk to someone about my attraction to Lazarus, but when she finds out how old he is, she’ll probably be disgusted and ask me to leave. Merci’s my only friend. I don’t want to lose her because I’m apparently turning into a creep.
“I will absolutely not forget it!” She squeals. “You’re my BFF! You have to tell me who you’re crushing on! It’s like, a rule.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips because I can’t believe I actually have a BFF. I’ve never really gotten close enough to girls at school to acquire the acronym.
“It’s no one you know.” My stomach flutters while images of a barely dressed Lazarus dance through my brain. I haven’t forgotten about that night… Not once in the year since it happened. It doesn’t help that he shows up in my dreams constantly, a
nd he never seems to be wearing much.
I don’t see him any more or any less than normal. He’s at our house often, but he rarely speaks to me, and when he does, it’s in a patronizing way, as if even uttering words to me is a waste of his time, and he wants me to know he’s doing me a favor by using his breath on me.
“So he’s not from school then.” Merci taps a finger on her chin. “Hmm. And who do you know who isn’t from our school? Is he from a rival school? Maybe a football player?”
“No. He’s… older,” I gulp down my uncertainties.
I shouldn’t be telling her this. It makes me sound like a psycho.
“Oooh older man! Hot,” she snickers, tickling my foot and making me flinch. “Just tell me, Traci. You know I’ll drag it out of you, eventually.”
I purse my lips. She has a point.
I haven’t known her all that long, but I’ve come to realize she always gets her way. And if she doesn’t get it willingly, she’ll use extreme measures to make it happen.
“Okay, fine.” I sit up on her bed. “I’ll tell you. But you have to promise not to say anything to anyone. Seriously, Merci. This is… it’s a little weird.”
Her face lights up like I just told her I can get access to the mall after-hours.
“Oh my God! My little Traci-baby has a weird crush?! This is so exciting!” She wiggles in place, and as much as my face is heating, I can’t ignore how good it feels to have a friend like her. Someone who’s interested in hearing my stuff.
Merci listens to everything I have to say, and not just about boys. She lets me talk about Mom without making that awkward face my other friends would make, giving away how little they knew how to respond. What they never understood is that I don’t need them to respond. I just need them to listen.
Merci’s eyes stay wide as she waits for me to speak. Eventually, I take a deep breath and drop my head. “I think I have a crush on my dad’s business partner…”
It feels really weird saying it out loud. I’ve been thinking about this newfound interest in Lazarus for a while now. It’s on my mind more than anything else, shy of missing Mom. But that doesn’t mean I’ve fully accepted it.
I just can’t get it squared that I’m attracted to my dad’s best friend, the man who always weirded me out. Who buys me obligatory Christmas and birthday presents, I’m guessing based on what Mom and Dad tell him to get. Who helps me with my math homework when I complain about how difficult it is, just to shut me up.
Lazarus Weston. Who looks past me most of the time; his stormy eyes never actually noticing me unless it’s to resolve a problem that’s upsetting Dad.
It’s beyond bizarre to me that those eyes no longer unnerve me because I find him strange, but because of how much I enjoy looking at them. They intrigue me now, and I have no idea how, when, or why the switch flipped.
I suppose the when was that night I saw him half-naked… But why?
“Hold the fuck on!” Merci shouts, and I cringe, bracing myself, since I know her outburst means she must think I’m crazy. I just hope she doesn’t rethink this best friendship over it. “Are you really telling me you have a crush on someone your dad’s age??” Merci’s mouth hangs open in astonishment.
To my surprise, she doesn’t look grossed out. She looks elated.
“Yea, I think so.”
“That’s… awesome!” She jumps up and joins me on the bed. “Who is he? What’s his name?”
My throat is abnormally thick as I say, “Lazarus.” The contrast of heavy weightlessness at simply uttering his name confuses me.
Why is this happening now? All the crushes on scrawny singers, and I’ve never felt these sorts of butterflies until I see Dad’s best friend without a shirt…
“Hot name,” Merci grins. “How old is he, anyway? Your dad must be almost forty. Though he definitely doesn’t look it.” She bites her lip and I narrow my gaze at her. “Girl, you’re gonna find this out eventually, so better it be from me, your BFF. But your dad is hot. He’s a DILF.”
Then she bursts out laughing.
“What the hell is a DILF…?” I ask, bemused by her reaction.
“Dad I’d Like to F-”
“Oh my God! Please don’t finish that,” I gasp in horror, to which she laughs more.
“Sorry, T, but it’s true,” she shrugs. “And now that I know his friends are just as hot, I think we’ll have to start hanging out at your place from now on.”
I can’t help but giggle at this, because it’s super awkward that she thinks Dad is hot, but still, I’m excited at the prospect of having a friend over for the first time in years.
“Merc, it’s different with Lazarus, though,” I mumble. “I’ve known him my whole life. Why am I feeling like this now, out of nowhere? He’s practically family. It’s weird.”
“First of all, it’s not as weird as you’d think,” she says pointedly. “And second of all, you’re becoming a woman.” With a wide smile, she tilts her head toward the pile of tampons next to my purse. I can’t help but laugh skeptically. “You’ll be seeing all sorts of things differently now. Trust me.”
“How would you know? You’re barely two years older than me.”
She shrugs. “I matured early. And I know you are, too. Experiencing a great tragedy early on is a perfect way to grow your ass up faster than everyone else. Plus, you’re already like the smartest person I know. Wise beyond your years.”
I burst out laughing, and she nudges me with her shoulder. I like this girl a lot. I’m so glad she moved here.
“So what are you gonna do about your old man crush?” She smirks.
“I don’t know,” I sigh, fiddling with the ring on my thumb. “I guess I’ll just have to ignore him. I mean, more than usual. I can’t have these kinds of feelings, Merci. He’s always around. I’m telling you, he’s my dad’s best friend in the world. And they work together.”
“Okay, if you say so. But just be careful,” she warns. “My first real crush was dangerous…”
“What do you mean dangerous?”
“It was also on someone I wasn’t supposed to be liking. And I got a little obsessed with him. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. He was all I thought about. It sucked.”
I swallow over the growing lump in my throat. “What happened? How did you get over it?”
“I didn’t,” she smiles, chagrined. “We moved here. And that was that.”
Suddenly, my heart hurts. Maybe it’s sympathy for my new best friend. Or maybe it’s how painful the thought of never seeing Lazarus again is to my newly fragile womanly state. Even imagining it is agonizing.
I know Lazarus isn’t going anywhere, which is a comfort and a curse. I won’t have to experience the pain Merci did, but being around him constantly while all these new feelings are brewing might be worse.
“Do you still think about him?” My brows stitch together as I lean in for her answer.
She stares at me, smile having slipped away to reveal some rare vulnerability. I’m coming to realize I don’t see authentic emotions on Merci much, which makes seeing them now even more intense.
For a moment, she looks like she wants to lie, to spare me overthinking about my own conundrum.
But she eventually lets out a breath and nods. “All the time.”
Well… fuck.
Chapter Ten
Traci
One year later…
My head is fuzzy, and my body is warm.
Lying on a chaise in the pool house, I hear a throat clear. I sit up and rub my eyes, focusing my vision on the form sitting across the room.
I know instantly that it’s Lazarus. His presence is overpowering, and his scent fills the room, like cloves and clean flesh.
“Sleep well, Trix?”
I can’t speak so I nod, watching him closely. He’s wearing his dress pants and a white button down, tucked in, as if he just came from work.
Thinking of his job makes me think of Dad, and my head bobs around on instinct.
“He’s not here.”
Why does his voice sound echoey?
“Why are you here if he’s not?” I ask, finally able to scrape out some words.
“I came to see you.”
“Why?”
“Just to look at you for a minute.” Huh? “I found you sleeping. You looked so… peaceful.”
Something in my body commands it to stand, and I slowly pad my bare feet toward where he’s sitting. I fear that he’ll tell me to go away, but thankfully he doesn’t.
Stopping right in front of him, I look down at his face, while he looks up at me. His eyes are squinted, dark brows zipping together as if he’s pondering something. Then his gaze slowly rakes over the length of my body. It crawls, almost appraisingly, judging.
Self-conscious of his studious eyes, I cross my arms over my chest, peering down at my body. I’m so small… Short and thin. I look like the fifteen-year-old I am, not like the ladies he brings over as his dates.
My chest is still too flat for my liking, though I have mounds forming beneath my shirts more each day. This thought fills me with pride.
Someday I’ll look like them.
“Why are you really here, Lazarus?” I ask him, aching to hear that deep voice rumble into my ears and slither to my brain.
“Why do you think I’m here?” His lips barely move when he speaks.
Something’s not right. This feels strange.
Swallowing, I answer, “You said to see me…”
“Mhm.” The way he murmurs sends a thrill through me, sheeting my skin with goosebumps. Beneath my crossed arms, my nipples have hardened into little pebbles.
“Maybe… You want to see me the way I want to see you?”
“And how exactly do you want to see me?”
His question stuns me, and I’m not sure of what he wants me to say.
“You want something from me, don’t you, Tracien?”
My head bobs slowly. “Yes.”
Lazarus stays quiet for a beat, our eyes connected. The intense gray reminds me of the sky before a bad storm. It seeps into me and holds on tight, strangling. But I like it. I like the feeling of being held down by his eyes.
