24. DMITRI

24

DMITRI

(Prom - many years ago.)

When I pull into the parking lot of my high school on the night of prom, I'm already checked out. The only reason I'm going to this damn party is to get away from my dad.

Push harder. Don't lose focus now, son. You can't.

He spent the last few hours obsessing over whether I'm doing enough to get drafted professionally. Before that, he needled me in the gym. A two-hour workout turned into a four-hour session. My muscles are so fucking fatigued, all I want to do is curl up on the couch and sleep. But I can't do that. As soon as I hit the couch, my dad puts on reruns of past hockey games to analyze.

Instead of doing that for another night, I'm going to prom.

Fuck.

I don't want to be here. I have a hard time speaking to people, even when they start the conversation. Crowds make it worse. I don't say the right things, my face doesn't make any proper expressions, and I would rather just be alone.

Alone is safe. Controlled.

A state of being I would do anything to find, but rarely get. My dad drinks. Sometimes he quits and sometimes he springs his relapses on me. The only solution to his misery that I've found is directing his focus to my future career.

I should be grateful that I'm his cure.

Instead, there are days I wake up not being able to breathe. Pressure wants to collapse me, but I can't let it. I have no choice but to be strong.

Today, I just had to get out of my house. If I didn't, I'd scream at him. And then… he could drink again…

See the issue?

At my high school, I get out of my truck. I'm adjusting my cuffs as I stride through the parking lot. The corner of my eye catches a flash of pink. Not just any pink. A very specific dark-pink hair that makes my entire body sing—and then cramp with dread. It's fucking whiplash. The sight of Kavi Basra is doubly an invisible punch to the sternum and a kiss on the heart. It's why I have to fucking avoid her. She's fucking dangerous.

Get out of here right now, Dmitri.

I'm about to turn on my heel and march back to my truck when I spot her wobble. My head snaps in her direction. Big mistake. From afar, the dress she's wearing drains my body of oxygen. I rake my eyes up and down her, telling myself it's in my head. She's not lovely, beautiful, or singular. We've never been friends or even proper acquaintances. There's no logic to me feeling like she could brighten even the darkest hole…

When Kavi sees me, her hand goes to her stomach. Smudges of makeup have melted around her eyes.

"You look like shit."

Her mouth drops open. Kavi laughs and then curls into her stomach.

The blood in my veins freezes. She's shaking.

I've already started rushing towards her. I don't slow down but scoop her up before she can hit the ground.

"I'm about to throw up," Kavi cries out, twisting in my arms.

I walk her to the bushes and gingerly lower us both, so I'm kneeling on the concrete and holding her. I hold back her hair as she throws up. It doesn't take long for her to finish, but when she does, she's mumbling apologies that run into each other.

The sound of them?—

"I don't care to hear your apologies, Basra," I bite out. "Stop giving them to me."

"But I ruined your prom?—"

"Don't care, Princess."

Her breath hitches.

Fuck. Did I just call her my princess?

The endearment has lived in my head since I first saw her, but it never comes out. I've never allowed it to be spoken.

Pink . Pretty. Princess.

The first time I saw Kavi, that's what my internal thought processes vomited. For a guy who hates communicating more than a few words, my brain sure was hung up on alliteration that day.

Back to the night of prom, bleary brown eyes rise to meet mine. I brace myself, ready for her to call out my slip-up, but then she clutches her belly again, moaning.

"I need to go home," she whispers.

You got it, Princess.

She keeps apologizing as I carry her again, but I force myself to ignore it.

"Do I need to take you to the doctor, Basra?" I ask, scanning her repeatedly with my eyes. My gut twists into a knot. She's not looking good.

"Already went to the doctor. Just need meds. They—at home."

Buckling her up in my truck, I break a few speeding laws getting her there. The route is familiar. Her dad's the coach of our hockey team. I've been here a handful of times, but never for long.

Parking my truck outside, I carry her inside her house. There's a code to the front door she whispers to me. Inside, the house is empty. Nobody is home. Taking off my dress shoes, I lift her up the stairs.

"Second door," Kavi says with a sigh.

It's her bedroom. There's no time to look around or to think too deeply about how I'm where I don't belong. When I put Kavi down on her bed, she clings to the pillows.

"Where are your meds?" I ask.

"Kitchen counter."

I'm sprinting downstairs. It takes me a few precious minutes to find them and to fill up a glass of water. By the time I get back, Kavi's somehow taken off her dress, put on a worn t-shirt, and climbed under the covers.

Her eyes flutter open. "You're still here?"

"Meds." I hold them up. "Take them. Unless you need to see a doctor, Basra? I can drive you." I look back over my shoulder at the door. "Where are your parents…"

Her pink hair spreads out like a whimsical halo. The smile she gives me doesn't reach her eyes. "My parents have gone out to network. My dad's focusing on his career these days. He's thinking of moving us to Seattle for this big opportunity he might have."

"Do they know you're sick?" My tone is harsh.

"It's fine."

It's not.

I go down on one knee beside her bed. Being a tall, built, six-foot-four guy takes up a lot of room. If she wants me gone, I'll leave right away, but until then I'm making myself less intimidating by any means necessary.

"Hey." My voice is barely audible. "Take your meds."

She takes them from me, pulling herself up to swallow them. When she drinks water, her throat bobbles. Kavi drains the glass. I pluck it out of her fingers, ready to go refill it when she covers her face with her hands.

"Sorry–I'm sorry you have to be here. I know I look like shit. And I have no energy, which means I can't even take all this makeup off before I pass out…"

Attached to her bedroom is a bathroom. I stand up and go find a washcloth. Wetting it with cold water, I go back to Kavi, kneeling again.

She's rolled onto her side. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is even. How do I know? I time it with mine. The soft brush of the back of my hand against her forehead tells me she's warm but not burning up. Her body is no longer shaking but slumped in her bed.

At this point, I could get up and leave.

I don't.

Using the damp washcloth, I start the slow process of taking off her makeup, applying the lightest pressure I can. When I'm done, Kavi leans closer. Her eyes are still closed. The cold must feel good.

I go back to the bathroom, grab a second washcloth, and run it under cold water. Then I go back to that spot beside her bed and press it against her forehead. Her pleased sighs…

I'm collecting them. For I can't stop wanting more. And I can't stop telling her she's going to be okay. Again, I should leave, but I don't. It's because I have a Kavi Basra problem.

It started from the first moment I saw her.

The only kids around were the few ones taking summer classes and me. I had come earlier than anyone, waiting for my dad to show up and register me at this new school. No one should have been around, but there she was. The girl with hair the color of a tacky crayon and a zit on her cheek.

When I saw her, she was laughing with her head thrown back, open water bottle in hand. It was clear some had spilled on her.

Her laughter burned my ears. Why is this chick so damn happy at being a klutz? Why is she acting like nothing bad ever happens while I'm here, praying my dad hasn't started drinking again even though I found an opened beer can in his room last night?

I didn't think she caught me staring. And then I prayed she didn't, because like a bad accident, my dad showed up, hiccuping. "They took my license, son. You have to drive me home."

I couldn't check if she noticed us, because I was too busy dragging my dad to the nearest washroom to chug water. By the time we came out, she was gone—but I kept imagining the reaction I'd get from a girl like her. How the planes of her face would soften like butter nuked in the microwave. There would be so much pity.

A week later, I officially started classes. It was my mission to avoid her. School was supposed to be the place where the crap in my personal life couldn't follow me, but now someone might know that whatever I pretended to be in those hallways—strong, uncaring, bored—I went home to an unpredictable mess every night.

My reality fucking embarrassed me. I didn't want to give her a chance to bring it up.

To avoid her, I became hyper-aware of Kavi Basra's every move.

She eats a sandwich for lunch every day, but can't cook for shit. She almost burnt the cafeteria down on one of her many volunteer shifts. Yes, she volunteers, frequently giving her labor away for free. Something about her dad being the hockey coach means living up to a certain image. When she's not assigned tasks, she's doodling while she waits for that ride home from him.

I don't think she has friends.

Her hair is bushy when it rains and wavy when she braids it for most of the day before untying it loose for the last period. She's short. Average or below average in most subjects except... art. Her drawings are incredible. I can't deny that, but it's not like anyone else cares. She never submits anything to the school gallery shows or contests.

Rather, she enjoys invisibility. She hates being called on to speak in front of the class, but teachers pick her because she will always say yes. She's such a damn people pleaser.

In the last year of high school, her dad's assistant moved away, so he volunteered her for the job. She started running errands for the hockey team.

That's how Smith got to her. They started dating. She was his, and with him, she got even smaller. Her hair mellowed to a color only called bright under the sun. Then came the collared shirts, painted nails, and perfect ponytails. Whatever it took to live up to being the captain's girlfriend.

Meanwhile, my dad tried rehab. It didn't stick but rubbed off somewhat. His bad days and good days became more my fault. The more I trained with him to play hockey, the happier he was.

So I told myself it was for the fucking best Basra became busy. I didn't need to watch out for her or her pity. Or wonder what really went through her head when her mouth pursed like that. I told myself she wasn't beautiful, compelling, or gorgeous. I didn't want to kiss her. That she never made my cock so hard it hurt.

My entire mission in life was to get drafted as a professional hockey player.

And yet?—

Right now, as I kneel beside her bed, I don't care about hockey. Wiping her brow brings me peace, clears my head, and makes it so I can finally breathe. The pressure I've trained myself to live with isn't crushing me right now. It's not even there.

All I want to do is more of this.

Screw my dad and his dreams and everything I'm expected to become. I don't give a fuck about continuing the family legacy. If I don't get drafted, I'll figure something else out.

And that's when I know I have to get out of this house. Because those kinds of thoughts aren't an option for someone like me. Not when I've trained my whole life to succeed at the only thing I'm good at.

She's fallen asleep. I wish I could tuck her in, but I don't. I refill her water, put her medicine on her table, and then I slip away.

The plan is to never see her again. I can't.

Princess, you are the kind of trouble I could never afford.