38. Let Them Hear It

THIRTY-EIGHT

LET THEM HEAR IT

die first, Nessa Barrett

Roe

“Officer, respectfully, either figure out what’s going on or get away from my house,” I tell the cop who has been asking me the same questions for the past hour. After parking the truck, Saint rushed in to sweep the house, but immediately backed out when he realized the entire place was trashed. We called the police, who arrived within ten minutes. They’ve already taken pictures, dusted for fingerprints, and filed the report. Just like before, nothing is missing; but this time instead of just moving things around, they broke plates and cups, and some plants were on the ground with the dirt spilled all around them. All my clothes were taken out of the drawers and closets, pillows were thrown on the floor, and torn books were everywhere. The creepiest part? They wrote in the mirror, Don ’ t do it. Don’t do what? Were they trying to get themselves to stop? Are they trying to get me to stop from doing something? Is this part of a prank too?

We looked at the cameras, but whoever did this was wearing a hoodie so you can’t see their face at any point. The police concurred that it was a man around six feet tall who’s doing this, based on their evidence. He used gloves and with the minimal visibility of his face, we don’t have a lot of information to use. He left with a bag but we can’t figure out if there was anything in it. We have no other identifiers and have been instructed to call back if anything changes.

They leave and I plop myself on the ground, exhausted and emotionally spent from dealing with this shit. I can’t think of a single person that would do this.

“Princesa,” Saint whispers. I look up and see his hand wide open, held out to help me up.

“I’m so pissed about this. Who would do this?” I ask, letting him pull me to my feet.

“I know, and we will figure it out, but right now it is late. Let’s go to my place and we can deal with this tomorrow.”

“Let me grab a bag and some clothes,” I say, walking to the linen closet where I keep my overnight bags. Opening the door to grab one, I let out a yelp when I see it.

“What? What is it?” Saint asks, running to me the second he heard me scream.

“My trophies are gone,” I whisper. I didn’t think to look in here because what were the chances that someone would break into my house and steal my trophies? I don’t even like displaying them -- they’re a reminder that I have no one to share my wins with. A reminder that strangers think I’m worth having something to celebrate but nobody in my life to actually celebrate it with. Until now. I don’t know when that changed in my brain, but now when I think about who I would want to celebrate with, Saint comes to mind immediately. Front and center.

“What do you mean your trophies are gone?” he asks.

“Exactly that. I keep them in this closet but they’re not here anymore. That’s a pretty odd thing to steal,” I add and he hums. “I’ll call the cops tomorrow and tell them; maybe now that they know that something was stolen, they’ll put some effort into figuring out who did this.” He nods and we proceed to pack my stuff.

The ride to his place is eerily quiet. No music is playing and he’s not saying anything which isn’t like him.

“Are you okay?” I ask, snapping him out of whatever stupor he was in.

“Si, amor,” he replies, glancing my way and smiling at me. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes but it’s still a smile just for me, and I take it. I want to take them all. Take whatever he’ll give me. Keep him.

“Then why are you suddenly so serious?”

“Something about this thing is not settling right with me,” he answers, running his hand over his face.

“Yeah, Saint, nobody wants their house broken into.”

“It’s not my house, princesa. But that’s not what’s unsettling.” The AC is blasting in my face, making flyaway hairs become more apparent.

“You practically live there,” I say, and wait to see what he says. Again, he barely reacts, and that’s how I know something is clearly wrong. “What is it?”

“What if they are asking you to stay away from me?” he asks with a frown and his jaw tenses.

“That’s ridiculous. You’re not the first guy I’ve ever been with. Besides, it’s too late, we’re already together. Also, they asked me not to do it and if you think about it, I already did you,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows at him and smiling, trying to break his sour mood.

“I guess you’re right,” he adds.

I gasp and bring my hand to my chest. “Can you say that louder for the people in the back?”

He chuckles and keeps driving. In the blink of an eye, we make it to his place. It’s when I see another car in the long driveway that I remember he has a roommate.

“I guess you’re not fucking me tonight, huh?” I ask.

“For fucks sake. What?”

“Just saying, we don’t want to make your pal jealous.”

He gets out of the truck, holding the door open for me, allowing me time to climb over the seat and get out on the driver’s side. Not once has he questioned why I like to climb through. He just keeps holding open whatever door I decide to climb out of.

“For the record, princesa,” he says, as soon as he closes the door behind me. “I don’t care if I make anyone jealous.” He closes the space between us, placing his hand on the truck’s window, caging me in and whispering in my ear, “If you’re screaming while I’m buried in your sweet cunt, then let them hear it. I’m dying for you to let me scream at the top of my lungs that you’re mine. And if the best way for people to know that is with you yelling out my name while I devour you whole, then I’m okay with that too.” He kisses the shell of my ear and pulls me toward the house.

This man didn’t even touch me and I’m instantly wet, just from his naughty words against my ear. This is fucked up and I need to figure something out. I wish I could say before it’s too late. But truthfully, I’m already in too deep. He’s already cracked the shell and my heart is wide open for him.

We walk quietly when we notice that Marco is in his room. He might be already asleep and we don’t want to be rude.

Walking into Saint’s room, I’m surprised to see mementos and pictures everywhere. I know pictures were important for him, since he has them in his truck too, but he’s usually so neat and tidy, I expected his room to be white walls, a bed, and maybe a desk. Instead, I find art on the walls, family pictures on tables and desks, a colorful pillow on the bed, and even drawings hanging on a poster board. His comforter is sage green and his bed is neatly made.

He notices my eyes exploring and he says, “Sometimes all you have are memories. If you can capture them, maybe they’ll last longer.”

I can’t believe I’ve never shown him my own collection of pictures. I open my goose backpack and grab my own box of pictures, handing it to him, and say, “I believe in that, too.”

We climb into bed together and look at the pictures. Some are so old that you can barely tell who’s in them. And I’ve taken some new ones recently so Saint laughs when he notices one of him, sitting on his bike, looking into the distance.

He traces his fingers over one from when I was six and I was sitting between my parents on a pontoon boat. The wind is blowing my blonde hair and my toothless grin is front and center. My mom was already sick, with a bandanna over her hairless head and my dad’s eyes are focused, not on the camera, but on her.

“This picture right here reminds me that life is fickle. I was so naive and didn’t even notice my mom’s life slipping through our fingers, or my dad’s heart breaking with every passing day.” I lay down, lifting my feet and taking my socks off. “A vivid example that life is not always what it seems.” I close my eyes as my head hits the soft pillow and after a minute of shuffling things around, Saint joins me too.

“Aurora, mirame,” he says. When I turn my face to look at him, I see many emotions in his eyes. His hand comes up to gently touch my cheek, making small circles until his thumb is under my chin.

“I wish I could promise you that I won’t die. But I can’t, because that’s the one constant we all have. But I can promise you that I won’t leave you. You won’t ever have to worry about me leaving physically or emotionally. I’m here, amor, you’ve got me.” He smiles and suddenly, my world seems safer again.

“You do mean that, right? You’re mine?” I ask.

“I do,” he says and reaches over grabbing my hand and pulling me to him. “Yours to keep, remember?”

“Does that mean that you’re only mine? You’re not seeing other women, right?” I ask and I want to gag at how needy I sound.

“Roe, I’ve been with you every minute I have off and every second I’m not, I’m thinking about you. You’re front and center in my mind and my heart. I’m. Yours. To. Keep. Only yours. That’s what love is.”

“Okay, got it,” I whisper, biting my smile with my teeth.

He looks at me and raises an eyebrow, silently asking a question.

I don’t even bother trying to suppress my immediate eye roll. “Yes, Saint, I guess you can keep me too.”

I don’t know how we got here but I think he does have a hold on something that’s mine.

My heart.

I close my eyes and with his ocean smell and his warm body, I drift away into sleep.