v

I love her. I love her. The words, even mouthed silently in the quiet of my room, angle my jaw in ways I am unused to. I try the more familiar. I want her. I want Spencer. That's an undeniable fact. I want her. She wants me too, this much I know. Another fact. These are the building blocks, the simple rules of attraction.

I have been here before. The want. The desire. The heady beginning with all the usual symptoms of physical infatuation; sweaty palms, the purely Pavlovian reaction to every sound my cellphone makes, and all those looks exchanged, burning us with a hungry fire. This has all happened before. I know how to medicate myself through lust. The steps are familiar: the onset of fever, the full-blown case of the affliction, and then the speedy reconvalescence into full mental health – and on to another adventure.

And yet, despite the familiar signs, none of this is the same. I'm in love with her. I have been speaking the language of Lust for so long and so eloquently, I have learned the short-hand of it by heart. It was always the condensed version with me; a night, a week, and then a plain, final goodbye. Cliff's Notes of relationships. Simple. Small words, short sentences, quick pay-off. Now I have been rendered mute by this new dialect my stubborn heart is insisting upon, all the short words made unintelligible, the message changed. I want her. True. And, yet, the meaning is not the same anymore. Lust is love. Love is...

I would laugh at myself if I weren't afraid it would turn slightly hysterical. All these maudlin thoughts thrum inside my head, all these trite poetics, but when I open my mouth to say something, say anything to her, nonsense comes out. I love these fucking brownies, for god's sake? I have been rendered mute, tongue tied into a Gordian knot in my mouth, but all these new wordsunknown and strangely shaped, keep knocking into my clenched teeth, wanting out.

I love her. I taste them, roll their shape across a tongue unused to talking about such things. I love her. I love Spencer. I try to get used to their heaviness in my mouth, to rub down the sharp edges of their meaning. Say it, Ashley. I open my mouth. I lick my lips. I have been rendered mute. It's a new virus, this mutation burning into my cells with every beat of my heart, a disease I thought myself inoculated against. Love. Love has rendered me mute. Love, still, wants to be spoken of.

I love her. I can't stop the thought, this inner mantra, any more than I could stop the rush of blood in my veins. How could a truth so self-evident escape me for so long? Was it there all along, a familiar graffiti on the wall directly in front of me, unintelligible to the untrained eye? I am learning a new language. I grasp the meaning. I cannot shape the words yet.

I love her. This love has rendered me mute. The rules change when you move from the sidelines and join the game, Ash. Very well. I have been rendered mute. The words crowd my throat, fighting to get out. I cannot use them.

I look at my hands. So steady now. Very well. My speech has failed me? I will learn the language of signs. I will shape the letters with my hands, write out sentences with my fingers. If she can't understand me, I will teach her the Braille of my love. We will learn the shape of the new language together.

I love her. I let the fever take me.

vi

I can't do this.

vii

When I look at her, I know what weakness is. I can feel it in my bones, this lack of strength to look away, to resist, this dearth of determination to walk away from her. They taught us this in biology, a lesson I was bored enough to pay attention to, the self-preservation instinct. We all have it hard-wired in our brains, to flee in front of danger, all impulse, no thought. And here I am, paralyzed with fear. Immobile with want. A sequined tight-rope walker caught between what she wants and what she fears, wire sharp and slippery underneath the balls of her feet, seeing no comfort on either end of the rope.

She has short-circuited me. I am the tamed animal at her feet though in the back of my throat I can already taste the hurt she will cause me, the heartbreak – this is a story that can only end one way, after all – but one look at her and I stay put, muzzle to paws, I forgo the freedom of the solitary hunt.

Shit. She has me comparing myself to a lone wolf. This is bad.

I play with the make-up brush. It glides over my cheeks, my mouth, my closed eyes. For a moment it is almost enough, a simple touch, a fleeting pleasure. I am afraid to want more. But I can't help myself.

Love is pain. I don't know who said that – someone smarter than me, certainly. And here it is, undeniable, the burn and pinch of it in my chest with every inhale. I have learned it so well, this involuntary reaction to our every meeting, so well I already brace myself for it even before I see her; a look at her, a sharp intake of breath, an involuntary smile – and in the background of it all, this frightening free-fall inside me. My heart is on a yo-yo string, all it takes is a touch of her fingers on my forearm, and there it goes – from my throat down to the pits of my stomach, and back again.

I can smell her whenever she sits near, air between us hot with possibilities. I do nothing to turn what is possible into what is real. I am a coward. And yet I don't run. Instead, I fall back on the basics of self-defense, the Ashley Routine – the tease, the reel-in, the pull-back – but this time it is me who is jerking uncontrollably at the end of the line, hooked and gasping for air.

She has taught me what weakness is. I lay out my clothes for tonight carefully, nearly nauseous with anxiety. Every piece of the ensemble is a talisman, a charm. Black, to keep my feelings hidden. Silk, to stay cool to her touch. Lace, to make her want me as I want her. This will be my armor for tonight. It will not be enough to protect me. I am weak. I will succumb.

I look in the mirror. Old Ashley looks back at me, seemingly impervious in the Chinese-style dress, the lacquered chopsticks holding her hair up sharp enough to draw blood. She looks as though she could wound with a look, smite with a smile. Only her eyes betray her.

I have faced my weakness. Will I find my strength?

vii

Blue neon of Gray's sign is flashing erratically, throwing eerie light across the cab of my car. My heart follows its fitful tempo, a beat, two, then silence, then a stampede of scared beats, then silence, then... My hands are slick on the steering wheel, my mouth dry. Aiden's car is parked next to mine, and I know they're already inside, waiting for me.

Love trumps fear every time. How ironic.

I close my eyes, screw them tight, will myself to let go of the steering wheel, open the door, step outside. To take that step. I see her in the darkness behind my eyelids, confused but determined, and so strong. Spencer.

I swallow. I open the car door.

I am not ready. Not yet. Not like this.

I take a step, two, three, Gray's door looming before me. I'm not ready yet. I need some time. She will understand.