As soon as the front door clicks shut, I dejectedly drag my feet to my room. I'd rather Tara stayed at home, and she didn't look excited about her father's party either. It was as if visiting him was a chore, or maybe it's just me trying to convince myself she wants nothing to do with him because then I'd feel less of a dick for fucking the girl I'm supposed to stay away from.

I made sure Elena never spent the night, and on the very few occasions she did, she needed to be out first thing in the morning. Waking up without Tara filled me with hurt and dread that I sucked, and she regretted having sex with me. One thing is clear — I can't leave her alone. 

She asked why last night was different. Of course, saying I didn't know was a lie. We always know. But telling her she made me feel so much would equal walking into a crowded lecture hall buck naked. Different circumstances, the same level of embarrassment. 

I sit at the desk and pluck a pencil from the holder. The reference photo of the family of three I need to draw is in my phone. Thank God it's nothing overly complicated or weird. If I finish fast enough, I'll have time to work on Tara's sketch. I've avoided looking at what I drew, not to get caught in memories of Tara in my bed, but my fingers itch to finish the drawing.

I open the chat with the client and locate the picture to print it.  The gadget vibrates in my hand, and guilt overtakes me when Mom’s face pops up on the screen. I should've called her, should've asked her about the new job.

I put the pencil down and accept the call. “Hey, Mom.”

“Basti. How are you?”

Basti. Even the nickname reminds me of Tara now. I run my palm over my eyes. “Good. How's the new job?”

“The job’s why I'm calling you, among other things. I love it. Having experience helps. It’d be challenging otherwise, and there's too much to do.”

“What about the kids?”

“Here comes the curious thing. One of them, Mason, was talking about Tara, a girl who volunteers there. It's your Tara. I saw her picture with the kids. Did you know?”

Do I know her? Each new day gives me proof I don't. If she volunteers on top of her course load, the blog, and the job—or jobs—no wonder there are no free spots in her agenda. 

“Had no clue,” I mutter. “Wait, do you think that's how they got in touch with you? Because of her?”

“I’m positive.” Mom sighs. “Jobs like this one are few and hard to find unless someone recommends you. And now I feel bad because she helped me so much, and I didn't even thank her. Would she let me buy her lunch? Or maybe I could give her something. I don't know, Basti. You'll see her tomorrow in class, right? Ask her if she's okay with you giving me her number.”

Dad didn't tell Mom Tara and I were roommates. I don't know how to feel about it. Either he didn't want to involve Mom, or his request about me keeping my distance extends to her. The latter assumption sucks infinitely more.

“I’ll ask her,” I tell Mom. “So, what else did they tell you? How long have they known Tara?”

“From what I gathered since she was a kid. I didn't want to pry and risk seeming nosy.”

“And Dad? Still busy?”

“Busy, busy.” Mom groans. “He’s working on something big, but each time I ask, he changes the topic. You know how he is.”

Bitterness fills me until I can taste it. “I know, yeah. Say hi.”

“Will do. Don't forget to ask Tara.”

“I won't. Bye, Mom.”

I keep staring at the phone after Mom hangs up. Tara invades my thoughts, pushing everything else aside. It takes a considerable effort to focus on the family portrait, and even while I sketch, I keep thinking about her. Her, taking me home when I was drunk. Her, helping my mom and not wanting me to know. Her, begging me not to stop last night.

Close to midnight, I can finally resume working on Tara’s sketch. My thoughts grow more jumbled, and I drink coffee to stay awake and finish the work. Now and then, my gaze drifts to the clock on my shelf. Would she tell me she'd stay at her father's? Probably not. I take my phone but rest it on the desk immediately. She'd think I'm clingy. Desperate. 

I work on Tara's hair for another hour, adding detail and shading. At this rate, I'll spend all night at the desk. Another glance at the glowing digits of the clock, and I close the sketch pad, pinching the bridge of my nose as I squeeze my burning eyes shut.

The sound of the lock rattling jolts me upright. I burst into the foyer in time to see Tara stumble into the apartment barefoot. I left the light on for her, and now its glare makes it easy to see the dark smudges under her red eyes. She's shaking as she stares at me, not blinking once. Can she see me? How the fuck did she get home? I told her to call me. How could she drive being so smashed? What if—

No. I bite the inside of my cheek hard and take a step forward. "For fuck's sake, Tara. What the…Where's your coat?

She presses a finger to her lips. "Shh, Basti. Listen. I have a question."

I put my hand on her bicep, partly to confirm she's freezing like I suspected. "Questions can wait. You're freezing. Let's get you to bed."

"No. I'll be quick,” Tara says, her tone clipped. “Have you ever wondered how much someone's virginity costs?”

What the fuck? 

“Of course, you haven't.” She goes on. “I'll tell you. It's enough to pay for a year of college, so you don't need to use your father's money. Enough for a girl to be free. And when you're not even sixteen? Well, make it three years. I told you money wasn't everything, Basti. Guess what? I lied."

A thorny knot of emotion forms somewhere in my gut. She can't be serious.

Tara pushes past me and turns into the hallway leading to our rooms. I take off after her. “Tara.” 

She walks into my bedroom and stands by the bed. 

My heart jumps to my throat, each beat echoing in my ears. “Tara, please, talk to me.”

“Tomorrow,” she says, gripping the hem of her dress. She pulls it up and over her head. I stare at her in the fucking lace. 

Beautiful. My drunk, beautiful mess.

Tara pulls my comforter back and yawns, covering her mouth with her hand. Drunk as fuck, but still classy.

“Don’t gawk, Basti,” she says, getting under the covers. “Nighty night.”

She wraps my comforter around her and closes her eyes. I'll freeze, but I don't care. I never did.

I lower myself into the chair and turn off the lamp on the desk. The streetlights cast the room in a pale glow, but I can see her face, and that's all I need.

A thought trumpets through my exhausted brain. An ugly, nauseating thought.

Not even sixteen. 

A kid.

She was a fucking kid.

***

All I got was an hour of sleep at dawn. Tara didn't wake up to puke, meaning whatever she drank was decent. The fucking silver lining. I needed to find it somehow because there's none to her drunken confession. 

I flip the pancakes over and exhale when Brian texts Dr. Creighton bought the story about me coming down with something. It's nine a.m. already, Tara is still asleep, and neither of us is going to class. We might as well eat and talk. 

I turn off the stove and put the five best-looking pancakes on a plate for Tara, leaving the ugly ones for me. Hopefully, they taste better than they look. Everything would be even more depressing if I screwed up the only dish I can make.

As I enter my bedroom, careful not to drop the tray with breakfast, Tara stirs. My hands shake, and coffee mugs clink against one another. I place the tray on a nightstand, and as I face the bed, Tara’s sleepy eyes bore into mine.

I lean down and kiss her forehead. “Good morning, blanket thief.”

Tara’s hand peeks from under the comforter, and she gives me a little wave. “Good morning, Sebastian. I need to pee.”

She throws the covers aside and dashes to my en-suite. Thank fuck I cleaned everything. I pull a clean black tee from my closet and spread it on the bed for Tara. As much as I love looking at her, I can’t ask her about the cradle robber she sold herself to while she’s in lingerie, and I need to know everything.

His name, age, address. Blood type to make sure he doesn't get a transfusion after I turn him into a human burger.

When Tara reappears in my bedroom, her face is clean, and she gives me a shy smile. 

I nod toward the shirt. “For you.”

“Sorry,” she mumbles, picking it up.

I perch on the bed and groan. “Fuck, no. Don't be. I just want you to be comfortable.”

Tara chuckles. “I know. I'm sorry for everything, from invading your bed to stealing the blankets. Your room was near, and I was very drunk.”

Once she's dressed, I take a mug with coffee and hand it to her. Slowly, Tara sits on the bed cross-legged, leaning against the headboard. She curls her hands around the mug and hums, closing her eyes.

I put a plate with pancakes by her side and sip my drink. How the fuck do you start a conversation involving something so delicate?

“Thank you for making breakfast,” Tara says. “And for skipping class to babysit me.”

I nod and stab one of my pancakes with a fork. “You’re welcome. Let’s eat.”

She needs to have breakfast. Relax. And I need to buy myself some time to come up with the right words.

We finish eating in silence. Tara thanks me again and leaves her empty plate on top of mine on the tray. I take everything to the kitchen, and when I return, she’s in the same position, only that now an air of sadness cloaks her. It’s as if she’s dropped the happy person mask she’s used to wearing around everyone and allowed herself to feel.

“Bast.”

I sit next to her, mirroring her position — outstretched legs and my back against the headboard and swivel my head. “Yeah?”

“I remember what I told you. I’d rather forget, but it’s too late.”

A part of me hoped she lied. I rub my face with my palms. “Fuck. I…I don’t know what to say.”

Tara examines the hem of her—my— shirt. “I don’t expect you to know. I just want to tell you the truth because I ran into Ian, my ex, yesterday, and he’s not one to give up easily or at all.”

I clench my jaw. “Ran into him where?”

“At my father's birthday party. I had no clue he and Ian knew each other.”

“So, your father does business with pedophiles.”

Tara snorts. “I'm not that innocent, Sebastian. I was at a bar where I didn’t belong. Makeup can make you look older, and I happen to be good at it. Ian was eye-fucking me. When he made a move, I told him my conditions.”

I clench my fists. “And your age?”

“That too. But I was a willing participant. Nobody forced me.”

Rage sweeps over me, shredding my composure. I cup Tara’s cheek and turn her face toward mine. “Do you know what you were, Tara? A kid. You were a fucking kid. If he’d had a crumb of decency in him, he would’ve called you a cab and sent you home to your parents. You weren’t equipped to make sensible decisions, and that asshole took advantage of you. Don’t you fucking try to  justify his actions.”

Tara wraps her fingers around my wrist and removes my hand from her face. “I stayed. I was desperate for affection, and I stayed. For almost two years. Until I got sick of his secrets and lies. I had no clue about his family. Job. Friends. I wanted more than being a man’s toy he kept hidden and used whenever he was horny, so I broke up with him in a note and changed my number. But somehow, he found me.”

“Sick fuck.” I stare at the white ceiling. “Did you…did you love him?”

“I thought I did at first,” Tara whispers. “But it wasn’t a real relationship, and he never saw me as his equal.”

A pin of jealousy jabs at me. I get up from the bed and walk up to the window. My mind swarms with questions I don’t know how to ask because I’m scared of her answers.

Because I care.

And because I hate myself for every unfair, judgemental assumption I’ve made about her.

More of Bast's POV in the next one. What do you think about Tara's confession? Bast's reaction?