Chapter Five : What He Takes

The sun poured through the windows —golden and warm and obscenely cheerful. Clarisse dragged herself out of bed at ten, her body a sack of broken glass. Her eyes were sandpaper. Her jaw ached from clenching all night. Her hair hung in greasy ropes around her face, and she didn't care. She couldn't care. Caring required energy she didn't have.

She shuffled to the bathroom and gripped the sink with both hands. The mirror was a traitor. It showed her everything—the purple smudges under her eyes, the chapped lips, the hollows in her cheeks that still weren't hollow enough. She stared at her reflection until it blurred, then she turned the faucet to cold and splashed water on her face. The shock hit her skin like a slap. She gasped. Did it again. Harder.

Pretending is the only thing keeping my hands off you.

The words surfaced in her mind and she shoved them down. Down, down, down. She had to. Marcus was coming at noon. Marcus always came on Saturdays.

She pressed her forehead to the mirror. The glass fogged around her breath. She stayed there until the cold seeped into her skull and numbed the noise.

Then she straightened up, pulled her hair into a ponytail so tight it tugged at her scalp, and went downstairs to wait.

°°°°

Marcus arrived at twelve on the dot. He pushed the front door open like he owned the place—like every door should swing wide for him—and his voice boomed through the foyer before he'd even crossed the threshold.

"Babe! Where you at?"

Clarisse flinched. A Pavlovian response. His voice meant attention. His voice meant performance. His voice meant smile, sweetheart, we're a power couple.

"In here," she called back. Her voice came out thin. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Living room."

He rounded the corner and filled the doorway. Six-foot-four. Broad shoulders. Jaw so sharp it could cut glass. He was wearing his varsity jacket and a smile that made every girl in school lose her mind. His skin gleamed. His teeth gleamed. Everything about Marcus gleamed and screamed attention.

"Damn, girl." He crossed the room in three long strides and pulled her into his arms. His cologne hit her first—expensive, aggressive, choking—and then his hands, big and heavy, one on her waist, one on the back of her neck. His fingers pressed into the soft skin below her hairlinebin a possessive. "Missed you. This new house is sick. Where's the wicked stepsister?"

"She's not—she's not here." Clarisse pulled back slightly, but his grip tightened. Just a fraction. Just enough to remind her she wasn't going anywhere.

"Too bad. I wanted to meet the famous Devane. I've heard stories." He grinned, and it was all teeth. "She single?"

Clarisse's stomach turned. "I don't know."

"Relax, I'm kidding." He laughed and released her, throwing himself onto the couch—the same couch where Devane had sprawled last night. Clarisse's heart lurched in her chest.

Marcus didn't notice. He never noticed. He was already scrolling through his phone. "Coach ran us into the ground this morning. I'm starving. You guys got anything to eat?"

"I can make you something."

"Nah, I'll grab it. Sit down, babe. You look tired."

You look tired. Translation: You look bad. Clarisse heard the subtext. She always heard the subtext. She sat on the opposite end of the couch, perching on the edge like a bird ready to take flight.

Marcus returned from the kitchen with a sandwich piled high—ham, cheese, mayo, three slices of bread stacked like a dare. He bit into it with gusto, crumbs scattering across his jacket. Clarisse watched his jaw work and thought about the pancakes she hadn't eaten. The chicken she'd scraped into the trash. The three bites of asparagus she'd counted like prayers.

"You eating?" he asked, mouth full.

"I already ate."

"Good. Don't want you passing out at finals." He chewed, swallowed, pointed the sandwich at her like a weapon. "Speaking of. Coach's nephew is going to be there. He's a scout for Juilliard. I told him all about you. You better not embarrass me."

The words landed like stones. You better not embarrass me. Clarisse's jaw tightened. Her teeth found the inside of her cheek and bit down. She tasted copper.

"I won't," she said.

"Better not. I talked you up big time." He took another bite. Mayonnaise slicked the corner of his mouth. "Also, I told my mom we'd do dinner next week. She's still talking about how skinny you looked at the last game. Said I need to feed you more." He laughed. It was meant to be a joke. It wasn't. "I told her ballerinas are supposed to be skinny. It's like, the whole point, right?"

Clarisse's fingers dug into the couch cushion. Her knuckles went white. She could feel the voice stirring in the back of her mind—see? even his mother thinks you're too fat—and she pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth to keep from screaming.

"Right," she said.

Marcus finished his sandwich in three more bites. He wiped his hands on his jeans and leaned back, patting his thigh. "Come here."

Clarisse's eyes darted to the door for a moment before returning back to him, her hands kept tugging at the hem of the sweat shirt she had on.

"Clarisse. Come here."

Her body obeyed before her brain could intervene. She crossed the couch and settled against his side, her head on his chest, her hand on his stomach. His arm wrapped around her, heavy and warm and possessive. His thumb rubbed circles on her exposed thighs. It should have been comforting. It felt like a leash.

"So listen," he said, scrolling through his phone with his free hand. "Prom's coming up. I was thinking we do matching colors this year. Blue for me, pink for you. Classic. Girls love that shit, right?"

"Sure."

"And I booked the limo already. My boys are coming. You can bring whatever ballet friends you have. If they're hot." He laughed. Clarisse didn't. "Come on, babe. Lighten up. You've been in a mood for weeks."

"I'm fine."

"You're never fine. You're either starving yourself or stressing about some dance thing or—" He stopped. Sighed. Set his phone down. "Look. I'm trying here. I really am. But you make it so hard, you know that?"

Clarisse's throat tightened. "I make what hard?"

"This." He gestured between them. "Us. Being normal. Every time I think we're good, you get all quiet and weird and I have to guess what I did wrong."

"You didn't do anything."

"Then what is it?"

"Nothing. I'm just tired."

"Tired." He snorted. "You're always tired. You're always something. Honestly, Clarisse, sometimes I wonder why I even—"

He stopped himself. But the words were already there, hanging in the air like smoke. Clarisse finished the sentence in her head. Why I even bother.

She should have felt hurt. She should have cried or yelled or defended herself. But all she felt was a dull, familiar numbness spreading through her chest like ice water. This was how it always went. He pushed. She retreated. He pushed harder. She made herself smaller. He got frustrated. She apologized. Round and round and round.

"Come on." Marcus's voice softened. He tilted her chin up with one finger. "Don't give me that face. You know I love you, right? Even when you're being difficult."

Love. The word felt like a door closing.

"I know," she said.

He kissed her. His mouth tasted like ham and mayonnaise. His stubble scraped her chin. His hand slid from her shoulder to her waist, fingers pressing into the soft flesh above her hip. He squeezed.

"You been doing extra rehearsals?" he murmured against her lips. "Feels tighter."

The word hit her like a blade between the ribs. Tighter. Translation: You've lost weight. Good. Keep going.

Clarisse pulled back. "Marcus—"