Empire of Desire by Rina Kent

The man whose shirt I probably messed up.

He didn’t touch me back, didn’t console me, but having him there, even immobile, was enough for me.

He still had his body tight and rigid like the day of the kiss. He still refused any contact with me, just like back then, but that’s okay.

He covered me with his jacket. And maybe I can keep it like I’ve kept a lot of him with me.

Like his notebook, his shirt when he once forgot it, his hoodies from when he runs with Dad. Most of them were my father’s, but if Nate wore them even once, then they became his. Don’t ask me why. It’s the law. Then there’s a scarf that he gave me because it got cold. A book about law. Make that plural. A pen. Okay, pens, plural again.

And no, I’m not a stalker. I just like collecting. And by collecting, I mean the things that belong to him.

But he’s not here now.

And there’s a hole the size of a continent in the pit of my stomach because now I’m thinking he’s abandoned me and I need to deal with these jumbled feelings on my own.

I came on too strong again, didn’t I? Now, he really thinks I’m an unstoppable pervert who’ll keep touching him whenever I can.

I wasn’t supposed to. I wouldn’t have if he hadn’t touched me first and told me those words that just triggered everything. The fact that I needed to deal with it to get over it.

But he was supposed to be there for when I did deal with it. He shouldn’t have left me another memento of himself and then disappeared.

I stagger to my unsteady feet, rubbing at my face with the back of my hands and wiping them on my denim shorts before I neatly lay the jacket on my forearm. It needs to be all prim and proper like him. Though I probably smudged it with my snot and tears earlier.

Yikes.

My fingers graze the bracelet he gave me as I tiptoe around the corner, searching for a very familiar tall man with eyes that could send someone to hell.

Specifically me.

Still, I forge on because I can’t do this on my own. I can’t stare at Dad’s bruised, lifeless body and remain standing. No amount of lists or desensitizing or empty brain syndrome could have prepared me for this.

My sneakers make an inaudible sound on the floor as I look for him. It doesn’t take me long to find him, but before I can rejoice, my heart clenches.

He’s not alone. He’s with the witch. Aspen.

Dad calls her that. The witch. I haven’t used that name for her in the past, but now I do because maybe she’s enchanting Nate with black magic. After all, she’s the only woman he pays any attention to. The only woman he relaxes around and shows that slight twitch in his lips to.

Some would call it a smile. But I’ve always considered it half a smile. Almost there, but not really.

Anyway, he only shows it to her and I hate it and her. I hate how put-together she is. How she wears high heels and walks comfortably in them, as if they’re nonexistent, and has the best collection of pant and skirt suits ever, not like my dull jean shorts and favorite white sneakers. I hate how her hair is bright red like her lipstick, not coppery and rusty like mine.

But what I hate the most is how compatible she is with Nate. How effortlessly they flow, how good they look together without even trying. She’s successful, cunning, and a boss bitch in their firm. The exact type of woman I imagine Nate being attracted to.

I overheard him say it to Dad once, that he likes women who go after their careers as aggressively as men do. He likes intelligent women with fire, like Aspen.

It’s not a surprise that the king likes a queen.

Because that’s the thing, right? The king doesn’t look in the direction of damsels in distress, doesn’t like doing any saving.

Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of what I am to him. A hurdle that’s pulling him down. An obligation left behind by his best friend.

My nails dig into the jacket and I can feel the spicy scent in it rising to my throat and suffocating me. I can feel the woodsy smell turning into high trees that I’m unable to see through or climb over.

I step back and sprint to the chair he left me in. I’ll just return his jacket and stop being a pain in his ass. The last thing I want is to become the annoying kid he has to take care of on his friend’s behalf.

I’m not a kid anymore. I’m twenty and I can take care of myself. I can handle everything, from Dad’s coma to the house to whatever he left behind.

My chest squeezes when I recall Dad’s state. I don’t even have anyone I can turn to anymore.

My feet come to a halt when I find a familiar face standing in front of the window of Dad’s room.

She’s wearing a flamboyant pink dress that has a cocktail of colors in it. A feathered hat with the shades of the rainbow sits snuggly on her head, allowing her bleached strands to peek through.

I approach her slowly, struck by how old she actually appears, despite all the Botox and things she’s done to her face. It’s like it has turned into a mask. Not to mention how swollen and big her lips are, as if they’ve been stung by dozens of bees.

“Susan?”

She doesn’t break eye contact with Dad, and I’m not strong enough to look at him again in his state, but I can see the way she observes him.

How her eyes take in the entirety of him, flicking back and forth as she runs her gloved hand over her leather bag. Also pink.

“Susan,” I try again, not sure if she heard me the first time.