Hurt me like you need me novel Chapter 29

I brush my teeth so hard my gums bleed.

The bristles scrape back and forth until the paste turns pink and I spit and the sink looks like a crime scene in miniature. I scrub my tongue — once, twice, three times until I gag.

Mouthwash. Burn. Spit. Mouthwash again.

The mint is nuclear and my eyes water and I grip the edge of the counter and stare at my own reflection and my reflection stares back with bloodshot eyes and a split lip.

I put my mouth on a stranger and didn’t stop until the stranger came under me.

You can’t brush that off, Sawyer. It’s in your bloodstream.

My phone buzzes on the counter. I flinch so hard I knock the mouthwash off the edge and it clatters into the sink.

Keylee’s number. A photo.

I stare at the screen. It’s him — thick, hard, a vein running the length of the shaft that I can feel ghost-printed on my tongue because my mouth was wrapped around it sixty minutes ago. The caption underneath reads:

Kaylee: So you know what you sucked.

My body responds before my brain finishes objecting. Heat floods my groin. Blood moves south with the casual, traitorous efficiency of a system that has learned exactly what triggers it and no longer bothers consulting the person it belongs to.

I can feel myself thickening against my thigh and I grip the counter harder and breathe through my nose and wait for it to pass.

It doesn’t pass. It never passes anymore.

I lock the phone and set it facedown on the counter. Press both palms flat against the porcelain and lean forward until my forehead touches the mirror.

The glass is cold. My breath fogs the surface and my own face disappears behind the condensation and for a few seconds I don’t have to look at the person who did what I did tonight.

I wash my hands three times with soap so hot it scalds the skin between my fingers. I can still smell him.

I put my hands under the water again. Fourth time. The skin on my knuckles is cracking and I scrub harder because the smell isn’t on my hands anymore, it’s in my head, and no amount of dial soap is going to reach it.

I have swim practice in two hours. First official session with the team. Coach Harding’s email said 4:15 sharp, bring your own goggles, don’t be late.

I need to be a normal person in a pool full of teammates in two hours and my jaw won’t stop clenching and unclenching on its own.

I can feel the muscle firing under my skin — clench, release, clench — like a tic I can’t override. I press my fist against my jaw to hold it still and it keeps going under my knuckles.

I pull on my suit. Pack my bag. Drive to the aquatic center with both hands on the wheel and the radio off and my mouth still tasting like mint and underneath the mint something I will never tell another living person about.

At every red light my knee bounces so hard it hits the underside of the steering column. I grip the wheel tighter and the bouncing moves to my other knee.

Harding is already on deck with his clipboard and his stopwatch and his face that looks like it was carved from the same cinder block the building is made of. He sees me walk in and nods once.

“Drum. Lane three. Warm up. Two hundred easy. Go.”

I go. The water is cold for the first three strokes and then it’s nothing — just resistance and rhythm and the blissful absence of thought.

My ribs ache on the left side and I favor them without meaning to and Harding sees it from the deck because Harding sees everything.

“Drum. You’re favoring your left.”

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