Don't Look Down

seventeen: don't need to talk about it

I wake early the next morning with a clearer head. And thanks to a soothing session with my trusty vibrator, all thoughts of Seth, almost moments, and heart-thumping aches have ceased. With my body no longer coiled with tension, I step into the living room, ready to tackle whatever today brings.

That's Seth, and not the version I've spent the last two weeks living with. This one is all new. And a mess.

His right hand rests across the back of the couch sporting gashes along each of his knuckles, his eyes are bloodshot and rimmed with crimson, and one of his shoes is untied-as if he gave removing them a shot before abandoning the effort. Said shoe is pressed against the side of my pristine coffee table, where bits of dirt are either scuffed into the wood or scattered across the surface.

I'm deciding whether I'm more furious or worried when Seth says, "The walls are thin. The next time you choose to set that thing of yours to turbo, you might want to play some background music."

His words come out slightly slurred and from the stale stench of alcohol I'm picking up, it's easy to deduce he's drunk. My empty bottle of whipped cream vodka resting at the base of the couch supports that fact.

Lovely.

I could be embarrassed Seth's just listened in on me pleasuring myself but figure it's not worth the effort. He may not even remember it when he sobers up later.

I take a seat beside him on the couch. "Noted."

He twists his beautifully ruined face, revealing the cut on the right side of his upper lip. It's warped into a smirk. "Did you have fun?"

Not particularly. I'd been pestered with fantasies of Seth's soft lips along my collarbone and fingers skimming the insides of my thigh as the vibrations sent me to the moon and back. But he doesn't need to know that, and besides, my result had still been achieved.

"It was beneficial."

He nods, his eyes lingering closed a second too long. "Good."

When his head curls back to the television screen so he can watch a mindless commercial, I ask, "How about you? You get into any fun last night?"

"Loads of it."

I've lost his attention. Either that or he's shutting me out. Neither is going to stand with me.

I edge closer, lifting my fingers to his battered hand. The cuts aren't deep, but purple bruises are already beginning to form. Carefully avoiding the tender areas, I skim my fingertips along the calloused skin of his palm. "Seth, c'mon. What happened?"

He pulls his hand from my grip and places it into his lap, not removing his focus from the television. "Nothing you need to worry about."

"But that's the thing. I do."

"You shouldn't."

I should start a list of the things I shouldn't do or feel for Seth because it's getting difficult to keep them all straight. I shouldn't care about him. I shouldn't ask him too many personal questions. I shouldn't want him and I shouldn't worry about him. But I do. And since I can't exactly press certain items on my list, I optimize on the opportunity to smash through this particular item like a wrecking ball.