It's my turn. I can feel Liam's gaze on me, maybe on my face, maybe on my ribs, maybe on my fingers that won't stop moving. I'm making typing motions on my hipbones, but words don't appear. I'm not thinking of any. I'm thinking of the cracks in the plaster on the ceiling, the slight breeze from the open window, the time.
"Becca?"
"I have a word document that's just a list of reasons not to kill myself."
I listen for the grind of his teeth, the click of a swallow, something that indicates his surprise, but: "Am I on it?"
I blink, not turning. I want to tear his hair out, but I settle for digging my nails into the mattress. The sheets are cool under my fingertips. I want to grab his hand.
"Hey. Am I on it?"
"Hmm."
"I should be."
"You should say 'fuck' more." I've memorized the way his mouth frames it, his teeth flicking over his lower lip, mouth hanging slightly open after k. He always puts a little too much emphasis on the word, like he's 12 and he doesn't know how to use it casually yet. "It's your turn."
