Gracie Mendez

Smoke stings my eyes.

Wincing, I struggle to hold back a cough.

“Andres, seriously?” I ask a moment later while waving my hand around to clear the gray clouds in my bedroom.

Arching an eyebrow, he lifts his eyes to meet my gaze.

After pulling out the cigarette from his mouth, he tilts his head downwards, giving me an off-putting look.

“What, babe? You want me to stop?”

“What I want is for you to quit smoking in my room.”

He grins, then puts the cigar back into his mouth. A moment later, he removes it and inches forward, close to my face.

I watch him with obvious annoyance; my eyebrows are furrowed, jaw is clenched, and nearly every part of me is stiff.

Parting his mouth slowly, he swiftly blows the smoke into my face. It burns. And stings.

Pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth, I choke back the tears stinging my eyes.

This is just who he is, I remind myself. He does not mean to hurt you.

“Andres,” I begin, but he cuts me off by making an easy shot outside of my window, getting rid of the cigarette.

My eyes follow his movements—his hands and the sharpness of them. Each of his nails are short yet neat, but his fingers are thick, manly, and marked with small scars.

Turning to me again, he softens his features, and I suck in a sharp breath.

He truly is beautiful; a melancholy masterpiece.

“I love you,” he tells me, giving me that familiar doe-eye look. “You know that, right?”

My head protests. Meanwhile my heart seizes in my chest.

I nod, swallowing thickly.

Mirroring my nod, he slowly inches closer, crawling on top of me and eventually pinning me to my bed.

The heap of pillows beneath my head dip in, and I gasp quietly when he comes down on top of me.

“Let me show you how much I love you,” he pleads, trailing gentle kisses against my jawline.

For a moment, I reel in this feeling, the rush of it, but then my stomach churns with a feeling I do not recognize, and I immediately retreat.

“Not now, Andres,” I smile up at him, silently praying that he does not get worked up as usual.

And he doesn’t.

But he continues kissing me.

Aggressively. Hungrily. Desperately.

I try to push him off of me, but I am not strong enough. He will not budge.

“Andres,” I breathe, fear and panic gnawing at my gut.

A frustrated groan tears from his throat as he pulls away.

“Fuck, Gracie. What?” he questions, clearly irritated by my indecision.

“I don’t want to do this,” I whisper. “I’m not ready.”

His face goes cold, unreadable then, and I am unsure of how to feel.

Gripping the sleeves of my sweater tightly, he stares down at me before completely turning away.

“Will you ever be ready?” he mumbles, leaning over the edge of my bed.

Heart racing, I go to move closer to him, but he decides to stand up.

“Are you leaving?” I ask, watching him with widened eyes.

“I’ll be back,” he whispers, offering me a half-smile, half-frown, before heading toward my bedroom door and exiting.

“See you, Mendez,” he calls from the hallway.

I choke back a cry.

“Bye, Andres,” I whisper.