Then, Shelby showed up. And I’m pretty sure she’s figured it out. How fucked up I am, and I refuse to fucking say those words out loud. She can assume as much as she wants, but if she thinks I’m going to utter those words, “I’m a fucking virgin,” she’s crazy. It’s not going to happen.

And yet, she still sticks around. Even when I’m an asshole. When I yell at her and push her away. She’s doing something to my head that’s actually making me feel like I can let go. But at this point, hope isn’t worth having.

So I don’t know why I walk over to her apartment. Why I put the rope on her door handle. Why I knock and walk away. I know she’s in there. I saw her car out front, but I don’t want to face her unless she wants to face me, so I put the ball in her court. She has the rope now, and if she can forgive the way I acted last night, maybe she’ll come over. Maybe we can see just how far this thing can go.

Shelby

The rope is hanging on my door when I open it, which can mean one of two things: one, he’s giving it back and doesn’t want anything to do with me or my kinky ideas anymore; or two, it’s an invitation.

I spent most of the day nursing this hangover. And I’ve only been feeling mostly human for the past hour or so, so I walk to my bathroom, eager to take a shower while I think about my next move.

Plus I kind of want to make him stew for a few minutes.

The stories I heard about him in the bar last night shed all kinds of new light on the image I had of Rafe from my own experience. Based on the evidence now, he’s literally been nicer to the people he arrests than to me. That’s not a great sign.

But he’s also shown me something stronger than kindness. I’ve seen his heart. Even from high school, I was one of the few people who could see Rafe with his guard down. I saw the tenderness, the fear, the hatred. And hatred is as intimate as love.

I can’t turn my back on him. Even if he does hate me.

My mind was made up the moment I opened my door to find the rope. No matter what he meant by giving it back, there’s only one way to find out.

After I throw on some clothes and comb my wet hair, I walk over to his door—rope in hand. It doesn’t take him long to call, “Come in,” after I knock. I open it hesitantly and peek my head in without any expression on my face.

He’s quiet for a moment as I step in. Sitting at the dining room table, he doesn’t even look up at me. “I’m sorry for the way I acted last night.”