But that didn’t make me feel any better. It didn’t feel like solving the problem, only running away from it.

I tipped my head back in frustration, arms folded tightly. This was bullshit. Since when was I afraid of facing anyone and telling the truth?

Probably since Manson had made me realize that my truth was frightening and confusing.

There was a massive boom overhead as colorful sparks lit up the sky. The party was getting rowdy, people were shouting and there was a sound of breaking glass. Part of me wanted to sneak away and go home.

I peered around the tree as footsteps rapidly approached, gazing into the dark. It was Manson, but he hadn’t seen me yet. He stopped about ten yards away with his back to me. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed heavily as he gripped it.

He looked frustrated. Almost anxious. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one bothered by all this.

He took his knife out of his back pocket as he stood there, idly flipping it open and closed. It was an unusual weapon, or at least I thought so. It was a butterfly knife, so the blade tucked into the handles and had to be flipped open. But Manson made it look easy, like it was second nature.

He played with it for a while without much focus, staring off into the trees. But he must have made a mistake, because when he flipped the knife around again, the blade caught his finger and sliced it open.

He hissed, and I gasped, and he immediately turned around. He slowly bent down, picking up the knife from where he’d dropped it. Blood dripped down his finger as he looked at me, his expression guarded.

“What are you doing out here?” he said.

I shrugged. “Same thing as you, I guess. Except I didn’t cut myself.”

He made a sound that could have been a laugh, but he wasn’t smiling. He stroked the pad of his thumb over his bleeding finger thoughtfully. “That’s what happens when you play with knives. Eventually you’ll get cut.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t play with them, then.”

He nodded. As if to reassure himself he could do it, he flipped the knife again. His fingers were quick and light as the blade swung out. The metal appeared impossibly fluid as he manipulated it through the air and caught it in his opposite hand.

I was suddenly feeling a hell of a lot warmer.

“I’m a bit of a masochist, I suppose,” he said quietly, as if to himself more than me. “If there’s no risk, where’s the fun? It was my own fault. I didn’t handle it correctly. The knife did what it’s supposed to.”

I stepped out from behind the tree and moved closer to him without even realizing what I was doing. He looked down at his bleeding finger curiously, a frown on his face.

“Maybe dull the blade,” I said, and he scoffed.

“I knew what I was getting into when I bought it, Jess,” he said. “It’s supposed to be sharp, it’s meant to be dangerous. No matter how much I practice, if I get lax, then I’ll get cut.”