The Last of August

At four, I woke but thought I was still dreaming. Holmes was perched at the end of my bed. Actually, she was perched on top of my feet, effectively pinning me in place. It might have been sexy, except she was wearing a giant T-shirt that read CHEMISTRY IS FOR LOVERS, so it was insane, and her face looked like she’d been crying, so it was terrifying.

Completely unbidden, my father’s list of rules for dealing with Holmeses began scrolling through my head. #28: If you’re upset, Holmes is the last person you should ask to make you feel better, unless you want to be chided for having feelings. #29: If Holmes is upset, hide all firearms and install a new lock on your door. I swore and scrabbled to push myself up on my elbows.

“Stop,” she said, in a graveyard tone. “Just shut up, will you, and listen to me for a minute.”

But I was too wound up to do that. “Oh, are we talking now? Because I thought we were just going to let your crazy family eviscerate us at the dinner table and then abandon each other there without saying a word. Or maybe I could try to kiss you again, so that I could get another round of the silent treatment—”

“Watson—”

“Will you just stop with the theatrics? They’re not fun anymore. This is not a game. This isn’t the nineteenth goddamn century. My name is Jamie, and I don’t need you to act like we’re part of some story, I just need you to act like you like me. Do you even like me anymore?” I was embarrassed to hear my voice cracking. “Or am I just some . . . some prop for the life you wish you had? Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re back in real life now. Lucien Moriarty’s in Thailand, Bryony Downs is in a black box somewhere, and our biggest threat is having to eat breakfast with your batshit mother tomorrow morning, so I’d appreciate a little acknowledgment of reality.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Actually, the housekeeper will bring us in a tray.”

“I hate you,” I said, with feeling. “I hate you so much.”

“Are we finished with this little production? Or do you need to rend your clothes first?”

“No. I like these pants.”

“Fine. Fine,” she said again, and took a slow breath. “I want things from you, intellectually, that I don’t want physically. That is to say, I could want you like—like that, but I can’t. I . . . want things I don’t want.” I could feel her shift her weight. “And maybe I just want them because I think that you want them from me, and I’m afraid you’ll up and go if you don’t get them. I have no idea. Either way, if it wasn’t bad enough to know that I’ve lost control over my own reactions, I also know that I’m hurting you. Which, honestly, isn’t my main concern right now, because it can’t be. But I feel badly about that. You’re feeling badly about that. Every time you look at me, you flinch. And I’m fairly sure my mother has interpreted that as you having secret nefarious plans toward me, and then when she tore you apart at dinner, I was happy, because I’m frustrated with you and I’m not allowed to express it. Watson, this is boring, all this wheel-spinning, and there’s no way out I can see unless we turn each other loose. But that isn’t an option for me.”

“It isn’t for me either,” I said.

“I know.” Her mouth twisted. “So I suppose that means we’ll be sharing this prison.”

“I knew we’d end up in one eventually.” The moon hid behind a cloud, and the room was washed dark. I waited for her to say something. I waited a long time, and she watched me watching her. We were each other’s mirrors, always.

But the air between us wasn’t charged the way it had been. It wasn’t suffocating anymore, either.

“So what now?” I asked. “You get a therapist, and I go back to London?”

“I loathe psychology.”

“Well, right now, I think you might need it.”

To my surprise, she flopped down next to me, her dark hair spilling over her eyes. “Watson, how do you feel about an experiment?”

“Not terrific, actually.”

“Stop. It’s not a difficult one,” she said, her face buried in a pillow.

“Fine. Shoot.”

“I need you to touch my head.”

Gingerly, I poked her scalp with my finger.

“No,” she snarled, and grabbed my hand, fitting it against her forehead as though I was taking her temperature. “Like that.”

“Why am I doing this?”

“You’re demonstrating nonsexual touch. It’s akin to how a parent would touch a child. When you were ill last semester, I felt fine climbing into your bed, because I knew that nothing could happen. Look, I’m not recoiling. I don’t want to hit you.” She sounded pleased. “Really, I should be recording my findings.”

“Wait,” I said. “You wanted to hit me the other night?”

Holmes lifted her head from the pillow. “I want to hit everything all the time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I should join the rugby team,” she said nervously. Stalling. “I, um. I want you to . . . touch my face. Like you would have, the other night, had we kept going.”

I eyed her for a long minute. “I want to help you do—whatever it is we’re doing. But I don’t want to be your guinea pig.”

“I don’t want you to be one. I want you to understand.”

For some reason, it felt dangerous to breathe, and so I didn’t. I held myself as still as I could, except for my hand running down her soft, shining hair to her cheek. Her skin was pale in the dark, but as I traced my thumb along her cheekbone, she flushed the barest pink. I bit my lip, and her mouth opened, and without thinking about it, really, I let one finger brush against her mouth, and then her hands slid up my chest, pulling against my T-shirt and then pulling at the collar, pulling me down toward her until I could feel myself pressing her down into the mattress, and my nose dug into her neck and she laughed, she exhaled and her breath was soft and a little sharp, and I tangled my fingers in her hair, the way I’d wanted to for months now, all of this I’d wanted for so long, and she angled her head as though she was about to kiss me— ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">