"YOU ASKED MONROE TO BREAK your nose on Thanksgiving?" 

       Aaron winced, probably at the shouting-level of my voice in his ear. "Yes, which is why―"

       "You stupid―" I tried to restrain myself. "You stupid motherfucker. So you got her to break your nose on Thanksgiving, but that wasn't enough, so you . . . what? Asked her to break your leg?"

       I was standing on the front driveway of Aaron―and Monroe's―own house. He'd called me only a minute ago, with news that I couldn't stop myself from squeaking at.

       "I needed to," said Aaron, sounding pained. "I couldn't―can't. Keep doing this."

       "Doing what?"

       "Football. My dad―he―this ten thousand dollar scholarship, you know? It's too much fucking pressure and I . . . don't want to tell my dad I don't want it. That I don't want football. To him, that's my ticket to glory. So my solution―"

       "Was to break your leg?" I scoffed. "That's the only thing you could have come up with? Rather than telling your dad you don't want to pursue football?"

        Aaron's voice took on a static-like quality over the phone. "The thing is, Mom left when I was a kid. You know that. I was always more like her, more sensitive and whatever, but when she was gone . . . Dad hated that. The reminder, I guess. Of her. So telling my dad I quit football, the one thing that's kind of our bond . . . our only bond . . . God, you know my dad. He'd be crushed. I can't."

       I understood enough not to press. And he was right. His dad would be crushed. But was that really worth breaking his leg for?

       "Does anyone know Monroe did it?" 

       I guess I have more to talk to her about than just her mercenary-style kickbox service.

       Aaron sighed. "I told everyone it was an accident. I was training by myself, I hit the ground too hard. A good enough lie. I'm in the hospital now, I've got an IV hooked up and everything."

       I wondered how Monroe had done it. And then decided I didn't want to know. "And afterwards, how did he react? Your dad, I mean?"

        "He's . . . waiting outside my door right now. It's probably going to be pretty bad."

        An understatement.

        "So you're calling me to stall."

        "It's that obvious?" 

        This scholarship was everything to Mr. Andersen. His son's success, his future, his dreams. If Aaron was stalling, I didn't blame him.

        Maybe I  was stalling too. I needed to talk to Monroe, after all, and I had . . . no idea how that would go.

        "He's probably already coming up with a plan to get me training again," said Aaron. "I bet he thinks I still have a chance, if I just tackle the broken leg like any other obstacle. Push through the pain. Shit like that."

        "And you're sure . . . that this is what you want? No more football?" Of course he was sure, though. I doubted he'd decide to break his leg on a whim.

        "I'm going to travel the world," Aaron whispered, and I remembered the conversation we'd had once, about a dream of a starry sky beyond this one―a world that wasn't limited to our small town. "As soon as I graduate, I'm out of here."

        "Then you better send me postcards," I said sternly. "From everywhere. And maybe I'll even come with you. A trip or two. Somewhere with mountains. Mountains are nice."

        "Good. I'd like that. I just . . . Talia? My dad is knocking on the door pretty hard. I can't stall anymore."

        I laughed. "Okay, before I hang up . . . just a question. If you got Monroe to break your leg now, then why'd you get her to break your nose back in November?"

        "Well, she was only supposed to give me a concussion . . ."

        I STOOD ON THE FRONT doorstep of Monroe's house. It occurred to me now that if Aaron was in the hospital and Mr. Andersen was with him, Monroe was entirely alone. I knew for a fact she wasn't at my house, because I'd already texted Claudia, which had merited a stream of capitalized keysmashes and: ARE YOU GETTING BACK TOGETHER WITH MONROE? 

        Monroe and I were probably both stalling. 

       Or maybe . . . she just didn't want to have this talk with me. Maybe she just no longer cared. Either way, I wasn't going to take it. I wanted answers, and I thought I deserved that much.

       I rang on the doorbell.

       And waited.

       It took an agonizing, excruciating two minutes for her to answer the door―two minutes in which I wondered if she was even home, if it was possible to due of suspense, and whether death by throwing myself in front of a car would be fun. 

       Just as I came to the conclusion of probably not, the door swung open.

       Monroe. 

       It was the only thing I could process. Just: Monroe. Monroe with jade eyes and a slash to her soft lips, Monroe with one tattooed hand on the doorway and the other holding her phone. Was it better, to have loved her knowing now exactly what I'd never have again? Or to never have loved her at all?

       She was wearing a tight grey shirt with loose black shorts. Her long legs were . . . I swallowed. No, I couldn't fantasize. I had to demand answers out of her.

       I only realized we had both been standing there, staring at each other, completely silent, when she stepped back. The spell had broken, but still neither of us spoke. I only stepped towards her, as if it were a dance, and she closed the door behind me.

       I had never known quiet could be so . . . deafening.

       Neither of us seemed willing to break it, either.

       I looked at her as if I hadn't seen her in years, and she looked at me as if I'd just come back from the dead. Maybe, to her, I had. After all, it had only been last night when I'd . . . 

       Don't lose courage. Just do it.

       I blurted out, "Why do you fight people for money?"

       At the same time, she said, "Talia, I'm sorry."

      For one precious heartbeat, time escaped me entirely. The silence was back, but this time it was filled with promise. Thunder. Something was about to happen. Something was going to give way.

      It felt like the moment we'd broken up, charged with electricity and rain. But we weren't standing in a storm anymore, surrounded by the light and life of New York. Now, it was just us―entirely alone. An apocalypse could've happened. Hordes of zombies could have been slamming against the windows, or alien spaceships could have been shining a spotlight all throughout the streets, but I knew―I knew―neither of us cared.

     I'm sorry?

     I hated Monroe like I'd never hated her before.

     Neither of us moved until we both did, and I didn't know who'd done it first, if it even mattered at all, if it had ever mattered, and then we were both colliding, lips and tongue and teeth clashing. Kissing so hard it had to be a mixture of fear and desperation and all of my pent-up desire for her. I shoved her against the wall so hard a picture of baby Aaron rattled and fell, and her hands interlaced behind my neck, pulling me deeper into her. I pressed kisses along her neck, the tender spot behind her ear, near her throat, and she tasted like citrus. God. How had I ever thought I was straight? 

     "Room," Monroe gasped into my mouth. "My room."

     She grabbed me by the hand, her tattooed skin flushed, but we only made it as far as the middle of the stairs before I cupped her sharp jaw with my fingertips and kissed her hard. If anything had been holding her back before, it wasn't anymore. She spun me so that I was sitting, legs spread, with her knee in between them. Her hands were everywhere, sliding over my hot skin, and I curled my fingers into her hair. From up close, her green eyes had taken on a dark shadow, her long lashes so black and fine I wanted to trace each one. Without thinking, I ground myself against her thigh, a moan hitched on my breath. Her eyes widened. And then a sensual smirk curved her lips.

       I didn't have time to think about what I'd come here for. I just―wanted her so badly I couldn't breathe. I nodded at her silent question, and then she was tearing away my pants, slipping off my underwear. My head fell back against one of the higher steps, and Monroe moved down the stairs so her mouth was level between my legs. At the first stroke of her tongue, I saw stars. Flashes of light circled my vision, my hips writhing senselessly again her. I pulled off my shirt, leaving only my red lace bra, and when one of her hands touched my stomach, my ribs, then my breast, I held her against it. She caressed me through the lace, until I let go of her. 

      Monroe. My hand lashed out towards the railing, seizing the edge with desperate need.

       Her inked fingers gripped my hips, holding me steady, while her tongue moved in constant circles. I shuddered, unable to hold myself back before I came with a long, breathless moan.

       "Shower," I whispered. 

      She swept me off the stairs in the same way she'd carried me yesterday. I breathed hard into her neck, my legs still trembling a little, as she finally made it into her room. I shut the door behind her, moved out of her arms, and pulled off her grey shirt―grinning when I discovered she didn't have a bra on underneath. Her nipples were already hard as she tossed away her black shorts. 

       The time apart, even though it had been twenty seconds, was already too much for me. I kissed her again, pulling her towards her bathroom, when I felt a telltale click.

       "Did you just," I whispered, "unclasp my bra with one hand?"

       Her eyes met mine in a devilish smile, and she tugged me into the shower. The water began to run, cold at first. The icy shock prickled my back, and Monroe laughed. The sound alone was so sexy.

       "Which one of these makes you smell so lemon-y all the time?" I asked, nodding towards her arrangement of products.

       The water, finally warm, slid down my skin in rivulets. Soaking my hair, my face. Monroe removed a bottle from the rack, one of what had to be at least fifteen. It was small and dainty. When she poured some into her hand, it had a honey-like sheen to it. 

      "Turn around for me," she said, as the water grew warmer. I sighed at the billowing of steam on the glass doors, and I turned around.

      The citrus-scented gel felt smooth, creamy. Her palm slid from my shoulder to my bicep, gently lathering me until foam grew in bubbles. Still behind me, her hand reached down to touch my right breast, her fingertips swirling the underside of my breast. I leaned my head back into the curve between her jaw and collarbone, my soapy back pressed against her front, and she kissed my cheek.

      "You're beautiful," she murmured.

      "Likewise," I said.

      I didn't care that we were ignoring our problems right now, didn't care that we would have to talk about them later, didn't care about anything, anything at all, except the feeling of Monroe's body against mine.

      I reached for a random white bottle on the rack and squeezed out some shampoo. I turned around in her arms. With the water matting Monroe's hair, it was black―the kind of night-black poets had been writing about for centuries. Tentatively, I reached up to place the shampoo on the crown of her head. She bent down a little for me, her arms snaking around my waist. The need reignited in me once again, as she took one of my nipples into her mouth and gently sucked.

      I reached for the conditioner, fighting a moan, but the bottle slipped out of my fingers, crashing against the tiled floor.

      Monroe and I looked at each other at the same, and it was as if a wild, animalistic frenzy had taken over. Her back now against the glass door, I sank to one knee on the soapy floor, her leg coming up over my shoulder. When I circled my tongue over the folds of her, she sighed and dug her fingertips into my hair.

      "Don't stop," she whimpered. The glass rattled when her head tilted back, and she ran her fingers along my cheek.

       The hot water made everything feel steamier. The panting of her breath, the slippery feel of her thigh in my palm. I held her leg firmly with one hand, and with the other, I squeezed her ass. God, she was so sexy. I lost myself in her, in the feeling of her, in every moan and twitch and shiver of her body, and when she finally climaxed, I felt it too, as if it were my own orgasm. 

       Breathless, she gazed down at me from up above, a smirk playing on her lips. How she had the audacity to look like that, some kind of Greek goddess, after sex and a shower, was beyond me. God really had played favourites, and somehow I didn't even mind. 

        Slowly, I rose to my feet, blinking the water from my lashes. Behind her, I could see the imprint her body had left on the misty glass. 

        "Monroe?" 

        "Mm?" Her voice was still raw from moaning.

        "I hate you right now."

        Her jade eyes darkened, a forest at midnight. "I hate you, too."

        "Monroe," I whispered again. 

       "Yes, Talia?"

       "Fuck me one more time."

***

I promise I won't leave you with this for too long, I'll be back soon...

From the moon and back,
Sarai