Like a Power Play

by Elle Sprinkle

Icarus Your dedication, though obnoxious at times, is unmatched. I envy you, not just because you get to play the game, but for the way you play it. I’m sorry for how things started. Thank you for reminding me of what I love, and how I can be better. Kim Possible

The only person who is looking at me is Peyton. Or maybe, when her eyes are on me, they’re simply the only ones that I feel.

“Peyton.” I say her name slowly, softly. Like I’m savoring it. It melts in my mouth and leaves an aftertaste that makes me crave another bite.

“This is Avery. Don’t leave a message. I won’t listen. Just text me.”

Which raises the controversial question: does legendary talent transfer the same way when it’s passed down to daughters?

She snorts. Like a pig. An angry pig. And it’s adorable.

It was the first time I realized sharp things aren't always meant to hurt. Sometimes, they're meant to protect. I think Darcy’s like that.

She’s exhausting. And unfortunately, I might be into it.

I don’t think I really understood the phrase her eyes lit up until I see it happen to Peyton. She doesn’t smile. In fact, nothing about her expression really moves. But something in her eyes shifts, and it’s like staring at the goddamn sun.

That’s when she smiles. A real goofy one. It’s one she hasn’t shown me before. One I feel privileged to see.

I don’t want the watered-down version of Peyton. I want her in concentrate.

Her hand curls behind my neck, pulling herself onto her toes until our mouths are perfectly aligned. I like when her mouth is parallel with mine.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” she murmurs, her smile soft and lopsided. I can’t stop staring at her lips as I reply, “Likewise, Icarus.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” I say. She flashes me a cocky grin. “But you do.” I frown. “What? Why?” She hitches a shoulder. “You can’t walk around with lips like that and expect me to not want to kiss them.”

“This is a bad idea,” I blurt. She nods. “The worst.” “We definitely shouldn’t do this,” I try again. “Definitely," she breathes. “You don’t do this." “And you don’t have time.” “Right.” “Right.” But the moment that word leaves her mouth, I know it’s pointless. And before I can even convince myself I meant it when I said we shouldn’t— She fucking kisses me.

Kissing her is like a power play. You know the other team has the upper hand, but you still fight like hell, because in the end, the win is that much more deserved. And I want to deserve her.

But then she runs her gloved fingers through her ginger hair, flicks those pretty green eyes to me, and it's over. I'm pathetic for her.

I stop, watching Darcy's shoulders tense. I want to press. To push. To piss Darcy off because it seems like that’s what entices her to kiss me.

That faint crease in her brow returning. It makes my stomach sink and twist. Makes me want to trade places with her, so that she doesn’t have to hurt anymore. I would live every day of my life in pain if it meant Darcy didn’t have to.

“But really, I just like making you mad. You’re really cute when you’re angry.”

I thought falling for someone was supposed to be subliminal, something you didn’t even realize was happening. I thought you weren’t supposed to understand why that ache in your chest existed, why someone you hardly knew could take up so much of your attention. But it’s not like that. In fact, it’s painfully, glaringly obvious. There is no confusion. There is no mistaking it. I am falling in love with Darcy Cole.

I don’t say it out loud, but I could get used to being the one she leans on. If only she’d let me.

God, she’s annoying. And gorgeous. Which is, frankly, the most dangerous combination.

“I wouldn’t call spending time with you a waste.” Then she grins, head tilted. “Maybe cruel and unusual punishment, but definitely not a waste.”

“Why are you like this?” I ask, gesturing to her entire being. Peyton just smirks. “You mean dangerously sexy?” “I mean irritating as fuck.” Her eyes flicker. She’s enjoying this. Me. My reaction. My unraveling.

She just watches me, that smug expression tugging at her lips. She’s looking at me like she’s memorized me. Like I’m a play she designed, and she's just waiting for it to unfold exactly how she planned.

Note to self: misconduct=kissing a pretty girl.

“Peyton,” she says, and the moment it leaves her mouth, I’m suddenly reminded I have a name. I had forgotten that I exist outside of this.

“God, you’re beautiful,” I murmur, tracing my fingers across her skin.

That morning turned my world upside down. She turned my world upside down, and I’m starting to like how it makes my hair stick up.

I think I see pieces of myself in her that I thought I’d lost. And when we’re together, it feels like she shares them with me. Like for a moment, we’re whole.

I said it in the beginning. She’s magnetic. I just didn’t realize I was made of iron.

God, how can someone be so endearing and so fucking annoying at the same time?

I’ve heard that phrase a lot. You deserve to be here. It’s something my therapist has had my family tell me for years, and not that it doesn’t help, but it feels different coming from Darcy. Maybe because she owes me nothing. Maybe, it’s what she follows them up with. The reasoning behind it. Or maybe, it’s just the way it sounds when she says it.

There’s something about her that turns the pieces of myself I’ve always resented into pieces of myself I don’t. It's like she sees the darkest parts of me and calls it light.

Something they don’t tell you about being a lesbian: it’s confusing as hell. Sometimes when you see a pretty girl, you can’t tell if you want to be her or kiss her.

Don’t get me wrong, aside from the swollen knees, crooked fingers, and occasional rash, I’m a damn sight to behold. But Peyton? It’s like all the wonders of the world live within her.

I take a step closer, watching her pupils dilate as I loom over her. There are two things in this world that have made me appreciate my height: Hockey, and Peyton Clarke.

It’s terrifying. I’m scared that she’s filling the void that helped me keep my balance. That the weight of her presence in my life has tipped the scales of my cynicism, pushing me toward something dangerously close to contentment. You know, when she’s not completely driving me up a wall.

“It’s stupid,” I say. She grins crookedly. “Stupid’s my favorite.” I narrow my eyes. “What does that make me?” “Are you suggesting you’re my favorite?” Her brow arches victoriously.

I stare blankly at the sea of people moving through the room and wonder how many of them are doing the same. How many are shutting out their pain, hiding the broken parts so no one looks at them differently. I wonder how many had their dreams stolen by a diagnosis, and if any of them have found new ones worth chasing.

"I want to understand what causes flare-ups. I want to know what ‘no spoons’ means and why people tweet about it at 2 a.m. I want to know all of it—because it’s you. And no, it’s not all of you. It’s not even close. It’s the least interesting part. But if I learn this, I get more time to learn the rest."

It’s ridiculous how something so small can pull her right back into my head. Not that she ever really leaves. She has infiltrated every inch of my brain. Every atom in my mind has her name engraved on it.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve been falling since the beginning, and now I'm scraping my knees for just a shred of her attention, because hers is the only kind that ever made me feel like I deserved it.

“I have not 'fallen in love',” I shoot back, knowing damn well I'm lying. “I’m just… mildly disoriented.”

“the library is humanity’s prevailing resistance"

“Romance books are the only PR men have left.”

There’s no cure for Peyton Clarke. When she’s not around, my thoughts chase her. And when she is, they scatter.

I know I've said it a thousand times, but she’s truly stunning.

I don’t know how anyone could look at her and see anything other than perfection.