Next of Kin (Next #1)

by Hannah Bonam-Young

I’m not normally an angry person. I avoid conflict. I don’t usually let people get under my skin. Or, more accurately, I don’t usually let them know they have.

He glances up and down my body far too quickly for it to be anything inappropriate—just enough to make me feel utterly useless.

The all-too-familiar feeling of embarrassment over being “too much” flares.

He studies me, and I swallow without meaning to. “When did you start making your feelings smaller for other people’s benefit?” he asks, his narrowed eyes focused intently on me.

I try to think of a clever comeback, something that will convince him I’m not some stuck-up, privileged debutante. Then it hits me. Why? Why do I feel the need to explain myself to this near perfect stranger? He doesn’t know anything about me. He’s asking not to know more…. It actually feels a little freeing. I’ve had so many people expect so much of me for a long time.

Warren is such an asshole. Then again, most good-looking men tend to be. They’re granted the permission, apparently, when they hit the age of maturity.

I look between the two men, who seem to be exchanging words that are silent to the female ear. I think this is the part of West Side Story when they start snapping and walking toward each other.

The loneliness that has been hanging over me for years threatens to swallow me up. I miss a life I never got to live—the one with the found family and friends I didn’t get the chance to find. I grieve for it.

I hold my breath at a red light until my lungs hurt just enough. Little doses of control do nothing to help the actual problem. But it feels good. For a moment.

I spend so much energy every day keeping myself pleasant. My clothing is approachable, my hair tucked away, my voice pitched up and calm, my posture hunched, head tilted down or legs crossed to take up as little space as possible. But not now. It feels good to let a little rage out. Surprisingly so.

As he sets his wineglass back down, he looks directly into my eyes with intent—I don’t turn away. It feels like granting permission. I’m letting him see me fully in return for his vulnerability. I don’t usually allow people in like this. Being open has never gotten me anywhere but heartbroken.

“You never have to do that with me. Show me the messy parts, okay? God knows, I’ve shown you mine.”

He flirts as a form of reassurance, and it works. He seems to know that what I need most is some of that confidence he has a surplus of.

“A dove is a symbol of peace.” He reaches toward me, holding my cheek in his palm. “That’s what you are to me…peace.”