Chapter 3: The Confrontation - Part 2
The thud against his spine was a punctuation mark of pure fury. The air left him in a sharp oof, and the ball ricocheted into the darkness with a hollow, bouncing rhythm. He didn’t turn around, just stood there bent slightly, hands on his knees, staring at the cracked concrete between his sneakers. Her footsteps were silent, but he felt her approach in the chill raising the hair on his arms.
“You don’t get to fuck on me and then treat me like a stranger,” her voice came, calm and deadly, from just behind his shoulder.
He finally straightened, the ache in his back a welcome distraction from the one in his chest. The court lights hummed overhead, bleaching the color from everything. “You left me, Mel. Don't fucking turn this shit on me." he said, his voice flat.
“You left the house for a whole day, Davy.” She moved into his line of sight, her amber eyes catching the lunar glow. “You’ve been ghosting my texts. That’s stranger shit.”
He picked up the ball, his fingers finding the familiar grooves. “I needed to think.”
“Think about what?” She stepped closer, her head tilted back. “How to un-feel it?” The scent of her, sage and vanilla, cut through the cold rubber smell of the court. It was a direct assault, a sensory callback to the tangle of her sheets. He dribbled once, the sound like a heartbeat in the empty night.
“I can do what I want to fucking do, Mel. If I need space, I will do exactly that.” He went for a layup, a simple, mechanical release. It clanged off the rim, violently. The ball rolled to her feet. "You think I'm going to sit back after you fucking left before I could voice anything?"
She stopped it with her foot. “You think I'm going to stabd there while you talk about our family problems, or whatever.” She scooped it up, holding it against her hip. Calming herself down, she continued. “I wanted you. I want you. That’s my choice, not yours. And that doesn't give you the right to leave for the whole fucking day?!"
He turned to face her fully, the distance between them feeling both infinite and nonexistent. “Who are you to fucking control what I get to do with my body?” The question hung in the frozen air, the realest, ugliest one. “I said my peace but you twisted it to something elss? Yeah, you can have this one. I'm not about to keep this conversation standing because you're not listening to what I'm saying."
Mel’s expression didn’t flicker. "Who said I wasn't listening? I'm responding to you about how I feel and I'm being rejected." She brings up the fact that Davy walked away for a whole day. "Look at you, big man, walking away from a problem you did yourself. I gave you consent to touch me and this is how you treat me? By ghosting me."
“The way you're acting right now? I wish I never fucked on you. It was meant to be fucking simple. I said I didn't want to rush it, but you didn't like that huh? I said you were special, that you were different but it's fuck me, I guess, right? Get the fuck out of my face."
“Do you really mean you regret it?" She fired the ball at his chest this time, and he caught it on reflex, the impact stinging his palms. “So I'm no longer special." She took a shuddering breath, the first crack in her cool armor. “You kissed me back. You tasted my waffle. Now either own it or walk away for real, but stop haunting the kitchen.” Tears pooled at the end of her eyes.
"I never did at first, but it doesn't fucking matter what I think, right? It's a big fuck me, right? So yeah, I do fucking regret it now. I opened up how I felt, but no it wasn't good enough for you. Now get the fuck away from me. Milicent." He turned his back bouncing the basketball.
"Then yeah, I regret giving this shit to you too." She walked off.
She walked off. The click of the back door echoed through the silent, sleeping house. Her chest felt tight, a cage of ribs holding in a scream.
She took the stairs two at a time, her dreadlocks a heavy weight against her back. The smart lights flickered on in the hallway, a cold, automated welcome. Her bedroom door shut with a finality that vibrated in her bones.
The familiar scent of palo santo and her lavender linen spray did nothing to calm her. She stood in the center of the room, her arms wrapped tight around herself, staring at the intricate veve pattern she’d drawn on her desk. The silence was a physical pressure.
Then it broke. A ragged gasp tore from her throat, followed by a wet, choking sob. Her knees buckled, and she slid down the side of her bed, hitting the wool rug.
She curled into herself, forehead pressed against her knees, shoulders shaking. Hot tears soaked into the fabric of her linen pants. Each hitch of her breath was a painful surrender.
She cried for the waffles he’d stolen, for the easy banter now shattered. She cried for the terrifying rightness of his hands on her skin and the devastating wrongness of his words on the court. The sobs wracked her small frame, silent and violent, until she was hollowed out and raw.
He heard her.
The sound was a faint, broken thing, seeping through the floorboards from the room below his. He’d been staring at his ceiling, the fight replaying on a corrosive loop, when the first muffled hitch caught his ear. Davy went rigid, the comforter slipping from his chest.
It wasn’t a sound he’d ever heard from her. Not Mel. His feet hit the cold hardwood floor before his mind fully caught up.
He stood in the dark of his room, paralyzed. Every instinct screamed to go to her, to fix the hurt he’d caused. Another, colder voice reminded him he was the hurt. The distance he’d forced between them now felt like a physical chasm.
The crying didn’t stop. It was a quiet, relentless erosion. He found himself in the hallway, the automated floor sensor lighting a path to the stairs. The house was a tomb around him, all sharp shadows and silent, expensive fixtures.
Her door was a solid slab of oak. He lifted his hand, knuckles poised to knock. He hesitated, his own words—I wish I never fucked on you—echoing like a curse. He lowered his forehead to the cool wood instead.
“Mel.” His voice was gravel. The crying cut off instantly. A thick, waiting silence replaced it. “ I’m... at the door.”
He heard a rustle, a shaky intake of breath. “Go away.” The words were wet, stripped of all its usual brashness.
“I wish I could, really.” He slid down, his back against the door, mirroring her position on the other side. The hallway light ticked off, plunging him into darkness. “But I want to make things right. I'm sorry, Mel. Fuck..."
“Congratulations.” A weak, sarcastic cough. “Come in.”
“I want to take it back.” He closed his eyes, the dark making the confession easier. “What I said on the court. I don’t regret it. I’m just… scared.” The admission hung in the dark, fragile and new. He waited, listening to the silence on the other side of the door. Then, the faintest scrape of a hand against the wood where his head rested.
The door wasn’t locked. He pushed it open slowly, the tray in his hands feeling suddenly absurd. She was sitting on the floor, back against her bed, knees drawn up. Her face was puffy and glistening in the soft glow of her salt lamp.
He set the plate and glass on the nightstand with a quiet click. The silence between them was a living thing, thick and charged. He knelt in front of her, the space feeling sacred and fragile. Her amber eyes watched him, wary and exhausted, stripped of all their clever armor.
“I brought you a sandwich,” he said, his voice low. “You didn’t eat.” It was a stupid thing to say, but it was real. She just stared at the offering, then back at his face. His hands felt huge and clumsy at his sides.
He slowly raised his right hand, palm open, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. "Can I?" His thumb hitched to brush away the fresh tear track on her cheek, the skin impossibly soft and warm. His thumb hovered, a millimeter from her skin, asking a silent question in the salt-lamp glow. She didn't flinch. Her breath hitched, a tiny, broken sound that had nothing to do with crying anymore.
She nods yes.
The contact was electric. He brushed the wetness away, his calloused thumb tracing the arc of her cheekbone with a reverence that left him trembling. A second tear followed the path of the first, and he caught that one too. "I'm so fucking sorry, Mel," he whispered, the words frayed at the edges.
He let his hand fall, but she caught his wrist. Her fingers were small and strong, her grip insistent. She guided his palm back, pressing it flat against her cheek, holding it there. Her skin was fever-warm. She turned her face into his hand, her eyes closing, and a shudder ran through her whole body.
"I made you a fucking sandwich," he said, the absurdity of it choking him. "Turkey and swiss with no pickles."
A wet, shaky laugh escaped her. She kept his hand anchored to her face. "I hate pickles." She opened her eyes, and the look in them unraveled him completely. "You remembered."
"Of course I remembered." He leaned his forehead against hers, their breath mingling. The world shrank to this point of contact, to the smell of her tears and sage. "I remember everything."
He felt her breath catch again, this time against his lips. “I shouldn’t have thrown the ball.” Her voice was a raw scrape. “That was petty.” Her fingers tightened on his wrist, her nails lightly pressing crescents into his skin. “And I’m sorry for saying I regretted it, too. I don’t. I just hated you for walking away after.”
The admission hung between them, fragile as the dust motes in the lamplight. Davy let out a long, shaky breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “I shouldn’t have left like that. For a whole day. That was coward shit.” He nudged the plate with his free hand. “Eat your sandwich, princess.”
She released his wrist only to take the plate, balancing it on her knees. She picked a corner off the bread, not looking at him. “You called me Milicent.” She said it like an accusation, but it was a question. “On the court. You never do that.”
“I was trying to make it hurt.” The honesty tasted bitter. “It worked on me, too.” He watched her chew, the simple act somehow normalizing the earthquake inside him. “The burnt waffles were better, by the way.”
A faint, real smile touched her lips. “Liar.” She took another bite, then offered him the sandwich. He leaned in and took a bite from her hand, his eyes never leaving hers. Crumbs fell onto the rug between them.
"I'll clean it later." He said.
He took the plate from her and set it aside, the mundane action feeling profound in the quiet. Their knees were touching now, a solid point of contact in the spinning room. "I meant what I said," he murmured, his voice rough. "You are different."
She studied his face, her eyes tracing the tension in his jaw. "Different how?" The question was a whisper, a test.
"Different like I can't sleep." He ran a hand over his dreads, exhaling slowly. "Different like I taste that syrup you use every time I close my eyes." The confession left him exposed, his broad shoulders slumping slightly. "It's fucking terrifying, Mel."
A flicker of understanding passed through her amber eyes. She reached out, her fingers gently tracing the line of his eyebrow, down to the curve of his ear. He shuddered under the touch, leaning into it. "So stay," she said, her voice barely audible.
"Here?"
"Right here." She gestured to the space between her bed and the window, the wool rug warm from their bodies. "Just sleep."
The simplicity of it undid him. He nodded, the movement jerky. He kicked off his sneakers, the thud against the floor final. They shifted without speaking, her back curving against his chest on the california king bed, his arm a heavy weight around her waist. Her dreadlocks smelled of lavender and night air.
He buried his face in them. "I'm staying," he whispered into the dark, a promise to the room.
"Okay, but you better not leave while I'm sleeping." she breathed, her hand covering his where it rested on her stomach. Her breathing deepened, slowed. The salt lamp cast their tangled shadow against the wall, a single, silent shape. He stayed the night.