I grunt again.
“Well, if you insist,” he says, chuckling.
His fingers draw circles across my hip, and his other hand pushes my hair away from my face. His lips feel warm against my temple. The sound of the cartoon drowns out, and his voice comes into focus. “Your Man” by Joji. A mesmerising, soft tone of voice. I drift further into this blissful fog, his voice carrying me to a dreamlike state.
“Noya,” he breathes after he finishes singing.
I murmur, but my voice is gone. The sleepiness is getting the best of me.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
I grunt a response, the only thing I can do now.
“I’m madly in love with you.”
I smile, burying myself further into the side of his neck. “That’s not a secret,” I reply.
36
FAIRY TALE
Isthis all just a maladaptive daydream?
As soon as I left the service station and the police officers caught me off guard, I went into a state of shock, and my only escape was escapism. What if this Conner, the one lying beside me, was nothing more than the fairy tale I conjured in my mind?
Two weeks ago, that night, the police questioned me, and he stood by without helping. Instead, he dropped the cigarette, dragged his shoe across it, entered his car, and drove off.
Is this my desire for a happy ending? One of the thousands of fairy tales I created in my mind to help me cope with the beatings and neglect—the broken home.
I stood there, the warm air uncomfortable, and the police officers sauntered over to me, asserting their dominance. The Toyota Corolla pulled out of the parking lot, and, uncaring, he drove back home while the police escorted me to their car.
I heard Andy’s ongoing complaints about his parents again the next day in class as we sat together. I listened without interrupting, slowly hating the person Andy was becoming, but having no one else who knew about me to do anything about it.Conner went to his table, his hazel eyes never drifting or looking in my direction.
I waited at the bus stop, the Toyota Corolla driving past, Sarah Jane in the passenger seat, hip-hop pounding as they went. Wylan slept on the chair beside mine, and I sat there, the heat getting the best of me.
I worked, lifting the soft drink case, struggling under the pressure and pain across my arm. Conner walked past the aisle, going straight to the self-service.
I went home, sleeping with my phone clutched to my chest and an empty inbox, listening to the cries of agony around me, sinking deeper and deeper into my head, begging for a release.
On Friday, I leaned against the bricks, Samantha with Dylan, while Wylan and Andy smoked a joint, and Conner playedDungeons & Dragonswith his friends.
This can all be a maladaptive daydream. And when I open my eyes, I’m staring at a still fan. The air-con is still broken, Mum is crying, and Dad is drinking. I can wake up at the beginning of the story.
It makes sense. There’s no way Conner’s personality is real… that he is real—the perfect guy for me. Our chemistry and feelings are so intense that they make me fall for him hard, and he falls for me. His smile, his laughter, and the confidence he brings.
It’s fake.
There’s no way someone like him could ever notice me. I’m in the middle lane. No one is supposed to hear me scream.
I clutch at his chest, and his hand drags down my arm, stroking it. I shudder, the butterflies breaking away from their cocoons in the pit of my stomach.
It’s not real. None of this is true, but… while my eyes are still closed, I’d like to keep this memory of him and prevent myself from waking from this fairy tale.
“Noya,” he breathes. “Are you awake?”
“Don’t leave,” I say.
“I wouldn’t be able to if I tried. You’re latching onto me.” There is a slight pause, and I’m ready for him to vanish. “Did you have a bad dream?”