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07/08/2019
TWO MONTHS. VIENNA had googled it. Desperation was a death-defying feeling. Everytime she saw him it would fill her body up until it was bubbling over her lips. Stuck in her mouth, swirling, begging to be let out. Consuming, controlling, killing. She didn't feel alive without it.
Reagan Smith had been single for fifty-eight days. That was enough time, right? She was there for him when he cried in her lap, because, unbelievably so, their English project had woven an invisible string between their index fingers. He had clung to her knees, his blond hair resting shakily atop her pale skin. If she thought hard enough, she could still feel him trembling.
As much as she wanted his affection, she cared for his being more. She hoped he was okay, but she never said it out loud because that was destined for someone else. Instead, she kept her ringer on in case he called. She kept her blinds open in case he pulled up out the front of her yard. She kept her shoes beside her bed in case he wanted to take her for a spontaneous drive.
Vienna's mother didn't take her driving often. Reagan did. In his 2008 white Toyota Camry, he would park with two of his wheels on her front lawn and open the driver's door for her. She remembered the feeling of his breath on her shoulder when he pointed out the buttons and steering controls from beside her. She had lost it, her daze mind-controlling. She couldn't reiterate a word he'd said, other than when he'd said her name.
God, she loved the sound of her name in his mouth. The way it sounded, each syllable and letter. His overly-American accent flowed with the pronunciation. She didn't know that three years later, she would hear it in her nightmares. That she would despise it. That, in four years, she would find the sound even more appealing when leaving someone else's lips. Someone she hoped was okay.
