1642734778_punk-57-pdf

He leads me into a spacious bathroom, very dark and very male, and
opens the glass door, turning on the shower for me.
“Take your time.” He plants a kiss on my forehead and takes a towel off
the shelf, setting it on the counter for me. “I’ll go make us some
sandwiches.”
I stare at him as he leaves, and despite the height and muscle of a man,
I’m finally seeing him as the kid I envisioned so many years ago who I
became so attached to and loved. The one I pictured as kind and gentle and
caring.
After my shower, I dry off and pull the T-shirt back on, finding a brush
on the counter and tugging it through my ratty hair. Thankfully, Lyla’s
assault missed my head, so I didn’t have to wash my hair.
Walking into the hallway, I hear the soft hum of music coming from
down the hall, and I step quietly, following it—but carefully, in case it’s his
dad.
I find Misha in his room. He’s walking around, picking up a few
clothes, and on the bed sits plates with PB&J sandwiches and sprigs of
grapes, with juice boxes sitting next to them.
I hold in my laugh. I don’t think I’ve had that lunch since fifth grade.
P!nk plays at low volume, and I feel my chest warm at the gesture. He
knows I like her, too.
But then I gaze around his room and see four office boxes, complete
with lids, stacked on top of each other up against the wall.
I walk over. “What’s this?” I ask, lifting the lid.
“Oh, uh…”
But I widened my eyes, taken aback, and drop the lid on the floor.
The box is filled with black envelopes. With silver writing.