Love, Milo

The elevator door closes, and the silence falls heavy upon us.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, replaying everything that just happened, just to make sure I didn’t imagine it all.

Milo at my side sighs through his nose roughly, letting go of my hand and pressing his back against the elevator. His eyes stay closed, and his hand is bleeding I realize, the knuckles busted along with his lip.

I tuck a curl behind my ear and sniffle, “He did it by accident, Y’know.” My voice is timid, rough from crying.

Milo raises his head and shakes it. “Logan does nothing by accident. I saw you walk away, and then I saw him walk directly in front of you. He spilled it deliberately.”

I press my lips together. So much for that.

“Why did you run off anyway?” He questions.

I think about telling him what his grandmother said, the horrible things that came out of her mouth, but I think better of it, he’s already had a hectic night, something tells me adding that to the pot will make him go back up there with no hesitation.

So, I shrug. “Nerves…”

The elevator dings, saving me from continuing this conversation. We walk out silently and make our way to his car out front. He opens my door, letting me in, and I buckle up as someone calls Milo’s name.

He turns around from beside my door and I see Genesis and a woman. She’s not very old, maybe late forties at most, but something about her appearance catches my eye instantly, and it’s the fact that she’s bald. She holds Genesis’s arm and is smiling at Milo. By the way, her eyes are shaped, and her lips resemble that of both Genesis and Milo’s; this is their mother. I’m sure of it.

Milo speaks, “Mom.” Bingo. “What are you doing down here? Aren’t you going home with Dad?”

The lady waves her hand. “I’m here to praise you. You’re also riding your sister and me home. I’ve had enough of your father for one night.” Her British accent is thicker than that of both her children. It makes sense now why Milo’s accent isn’t the strongest British accent ever and why he even has one to begin with.

“Praise me?” Milo opens the back door and helps his mother in.

Genesis waves at me from the side door, and I wave back. Her dark brunette waves brush against her shoulders.

“Of course, for sticking up for this darling before us. Were you not going to introduce me to her? Embarrassed of your dear old mum, hm?”

He stutters for a moment and scoffs annoyingly at her words. I turn around in my seat to face his mom as he speaks. “Don’t say that. Mom, this is Raelynn. Raelynn… my mom.”

I extend my hand and grin. “It’s nice to meet you… Mrs. Evans.”

She scoffs, shaking her hand. I don’t miss the fact that her hands are jittery and cold to the touch. “Pfft. Call me Iris.”

I nod. “Iris. Got it.”

Milo sighs, shutting the door after Genesis gets in the back seat and then makes his way to the driver’s seat.

Genesis starts to say how crazy the night has been; she also thanks me for being there and how Logan is a jerk. Just having the company of these two women makes me feel a whole lot better about the situation that happened. I let out a few laughs while Milo drives.

“Mom,” Genesis says.

“Yes,” Iris sighs. Yet, I can tell she enjoys her time with her daughter.

“What do you do to get a robot mad?”

“I don’t know.”

“You push all its buttons!” I watch Genesis in the back seat through the rearview mirror and begin to wheeze at her terrible joke, and it makes me giggle.

“You get it? Raelynn? Milo, you get it?” She leans forward between our two seats and looks at Milo’s side profile.

Milo grumbles, “Yes, Genesis, we get it. You’re beginning to push my buttons.”

“Oh, shut up, your sense of humor is dryer than a burnt toast, you jackass—’

“Language,” their mother intervenes.

Milo turns his head to say something, but I speak. “I have a joke for you, Genesis.”

She grins. “Tell me.”

“What do a tick and the Eiffel Tower have in common?”

She hums in question.

I giggle. “They’re both Paris sites.”

Genesis cackles, “Just like Milo!”

I laugh with her. My cackles and Genesis wheezes fill the car while Milo drives with low eyelids. Even Iris laughs silently as she stares out the window, shaking her head. For a moment, I forget about what happened; I forget the words that were said to me and the wine that dirties my skin. I spend the next few minutes in the car joking with Genesis.

“Hope you two are having fun,” Milo mutters.

“I’m having the time of my life, you parasite,” Genesis snickers.

Milo glances at me as he stops in front of a building, the headlights turning off. His face reads, look what you’ve started. I twist my face and shrug my shoulder as if saying, oops.

He reaches over to unbuckle my seatbelt, juggling it and me so it can come loose. However, he takes longer than usual, long enough for Iris and Genesis to get out behind us and shut the doors.

“Thank you,” he says a second after their doors close.

I furrow my brows. “For what?” Making fun of him with his sister and mother for fifteen minutes straight?

“I haven’t seen them smile and laugh like that in a long time. Especially my mother.” His eyes dart between mine, the seatbelt coming undone between us. He slips it back to where it retracts from, his hand sliding across my body to do so.

“Oh…” I breathe in, looking down at your hand. A stutter breaks up my words, “of course.”

“Milo!” Both of our heads turn to Genesis’ frantic call for help from outside.

Milo darts out of the car, and so do I. Something’s wrong. Milo runs beside his mother, who’s bent over, coughing a strong and harsh cough.

“Mom! Mom, are you alright?” He holds her up, and Genesis lets go, backing up with a twisted face, eyes tearing.

I walk to her, not knowing what else to do, and take her hand in mine. She’s not as tall as me, but she doesn’t hesitate to bury her head into my shoulder, hugging me despite just meeting me. I let her body sink into mine, wishing I could make things better, but I don’t have a clue what’s even going on. I watch Milo and his mother; she coughs for several seconds before stopping and standing up straight. Milo goes through several questions with her to ensure she’s alright enough to go upstairs. His face wears the most worry I’ve ever seen on him.

Genesis cries quietly in my arms, and I feel her shake. “She’s fine, see?” I whisper.

Genesis shakes her head. “She’s sick, Raelynn. Really sick. You wouldn’t understand.” I know she doesn’t mean harm as her words fade with her sniffles, wiping her eyes dry. I don’t respond because she’s right. I don’t understand. I’ve never wanted to understand something more. We follow Milo onto the elevator of this building that I’ve yet to recognize; it must be Iris’s home. My deal with elevators I ignore for the time being. There are more important things to worry about, and there is not enough room in my head to think about the space I’m in. Once we get into the apartment, he tells me he’s talking his mother to bed, then orders Genesis to show me the bathroom.

After he’s out of sight, my eyes fall on the jaw-dropping sight of the house or the penthouse. It’s large, with two floors and spacious windows overlooking New York City. The living room is gigantic, with a chandelier hanging from the high ceiling that illuminates the space just enough to see enough, to make the furniture glow dimly and faces show, but not bright enough to the point where it’s overpowering.

I’ve always wanted ceiling-to-floor windows; it makes the rooms feel enormous, less like you’re in a box and more like you are floating in the outside breeze. No matter how many flowers I sold, I couldn’t afford a place like this.

It makes me wonder why Milo would live in the apartment under me when he could live here. Or why does he teach when it doesn’t seem like he has to work a day in his life?

“Raelynn, come this way.” Genesis snaps me out of my admiration of the house and guides me to the bathroom.

It’s, of course, beautiful in here, just like the rest of the house. “You can strip in here and throw it in the laundry basket. I’d give you some of my clothes, but…” she looks at my body and sighs. “You seem a lot more developed than me.”

I tilt my head, watching the red eyes she’s gotten from crying. “That isn’t always a good thing. It’s a blessing and curse.”

She shrugs. Then sadly mutters, “Yeah, but not to high school boys. They rarely see it that way.” She shakes her head and tells me she’s going to bed before I can say anything more.

I’m left alone in a large bathroom, a tub on one end and a shower on the other, with white and gray decorations. The floor below my feet is glossy with a pattern, unlike my tiled floor bathroom back at home. An isolated burgundy bathtub is the only splash of color in this room. However, it suits the look. A bathroom for a queen, it seems like this was made for. I can’t get over how polished everything is: the white marbled sink counters, the walk-in shower in the corner. Even the porcelain sink makes me feel too dirty to lay a finger on it. I walk towards the shower and turn it on.

I haven’t showered in someone else’s house in years, not after what happened.

But weighing my options of bath or shower, I make my way into the shower, trying my hardest to avoid that memory or lack of memory. The warm water runs down my chest, dripping down my neck and breast. I look down at my stomach and then my thighs, the white scars scaling around my area.

I was thankful my dress was long enough to cover them all, or else I wouldn’t have worn it.

I close my eyes to make the thoughts disappear, but the images appear.

Images of me waking up, eyes blurry with sleep, my head pounding. Naked and scared, everything hurting— blood, blood everywhere. I gasp in a sharp, needed breath of air along with some streams of water, open my eyes, and slap a hand over my mouth to prevent myself from screaming. Coughs replace the urge to cry. My entire body trembles under the water, and I grip the bar connected to the wall, silently allowing myself to shed silent tears.

Wet curls fall over my face, and I sob, muffling cries against my palm so no one outside could hear.

I’ve once been told healing takes time, but it’s been two fucking years, and yet it hurts every time I close my eyes. He probably doesn’t think of it at all, let alone as much as I do.

“Rae,” I hear Milo call from behind the bathroom door. “Gen said you needed clothes. I’m leaving my shirt and sweatpants on a hanger on the doorknob.

I clear my throat. “Thank you.”

After several deep breaths, I shake away the thoughts and clean myself, braiding my hair into two rows down my head after realizing I don’t have my products here.

I shut the water off and grab a clean towel under their sink.

Like Genesis said to do, I throw my dress in the laundry basket sitting in the corner and open the door just a bit, peaking out at the doorknob to see the clothes Milo said he left behind: black shirt and gray sweatpants.

I put them on over my underclothes and make my way out into the hallway.

Now, to find my way to Milo… not a problem, just walk around the million-dollar-looking apartment and hope not to get lost.

And getting lost is exactly what I do for at least five minutes before I come across an open door. I nearly walk past it until I see Milo sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows digging into his thighs and his head low, hands connected at the back of his neck.

I step in slowly, knocking twice on the door to announce my presence. He turns his head so he’s looking at me through one eye, one bloodshot wet eye.

The last time he was crying, he was rude. I won’t make the mistake of attempting to comfort him again.

“If you want, I can… go home. I’ll just use my GPS or something.”

He shakes his head. “Why would I want you to go home?”

I jerk my eyebrows up, twisting the rings on my fingers. “When I found you crying earlier, things didn’t go well. So…” my word trails off.

He nods, sniffling. I watch him stand up from the bed, tall.

So tall and broad, in a black shirt and sweats. Just like me.

We lock eyes as he makes his way over to me. He pushes his hair back, a few strands falling over his face. I notice he’s cleaned his wounds as he stops an inch away from me.

Then, he drops to his knees.

I lower my chin, staring down at him, brows furrowing in confusion as I swap gazes from one eye to another.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“You said you wanted me on my knees, asking for forgiveness,” he says, tears still residing in his eyes. “So here I am, on my knees, saying sorry.”

He’s serious, and that surprises me more than anything.

This man, who I’ve known for no more than a few weeks, is on his knees, saying sorry and hoping for my forgiveness.

This wasn’t a part of the deal.

We didn’t say we had to like each other to fake date. So why does he care if I am mad at him or not?

“Why?” I ask.

“Why what, love?”

“Why do you care whether I forgive you or not?”

“Because I’d rather be fake dating my friend than enemy, Raelynn. And right now, I really need you as my friend.”

His face holds more sadness than puppy eyes. I slip my bottom lip between my teeth, hurting for him, looking down at him at my feet, wondering what the hell to do. We don’t have to be friends. I don’t think being his friend would be a good idea. Though staring at him right now… looking at the gray storm of his eyes, it’s hard to turn down the chance. He’s doing a lot for me by faking this relationship. The least I can do is be there when he needs someone.

“Then we’re friends, Milo,” I say after a moment.

He stands up from his knees and takes me into his arms tightly. They wrap completely around me, his head falling into my neck like a puzzle piece, weeping an unsteady cry. I’m stiff for what seems like forever before I relax in his hands.

And to my surprise, I’m not uncomfortable. I’m not itching to get away from his touch. I swallow the excitement down and turn my attention to the crying man in my arms.

I blink, blanking on what to do with this situation. I can’t say I’ve done this before. It’s not every day a gigantic man is crying into my shoulder.

I bring my hands to his back and rub them in circles, one hand traveling up to his neck. He holds me so tight that inhaling becomes a difficulty, but I don’t move him or his hands that are wrapped around my torso.

“How is she?” I ask softly.

He shakes his head, sniffling against my ear. “Not good.”

Sadness for him washes over me. His mother must have cancer; it’s the only explanation for her absence of hair and the coughing spree in front of the building.

“How long has it been?”

“A year.”

I rest my head on his shoulder. “And there’ll be so many more to spend with her.”

His fingers grip me, moving up to the back of my head, holding me like a piece of china. “I hope so, too.”

Not saying another word, he loosens his hold on me and takes my hand in his. Turning his back to me and bringing me to the bed, sitting down.

“Would you like the bed? I’ll take the floor or couch out in the living room.”

I shake my head. “I can’t take your bed,” I laugh shortly. “That’s not really fair.”

“Well, you’re out of your pretty mind if you think I’m letting you sleep on the floor or couch. My mother would kill me for listening to you and then kill you for not telling me to sleep on the floor.”

I smile. “Fine. Then you sleep on that end.” I point behind him to the empty side of the bed he isn’t sitting on. “And I’ll sleep here on this side.”

He seems surprised that I even suggested we sleep in the same bed, which makes two of us.

He doesn’t say another word, just nods in agreement.

Slipping his body under the covers, his face illuminated by the lamp on the nightstand, he opens the covers for me.

I stare at the space meant for me, then at him beside it.

I trust you.

Out of every man I’ve met in the past two years, I trust him. I don’t know why, but I do.Belonging © NôvelDram/a.Org.

So please, don’t make me regret it, Milo.

He looks at me curiously, and I clear my throat, getting in and under the covers. He reaches over to his bedside table and shuts the lamp off, leaving us in the dark, the moonlight shining through the curtains on the wall beside us being the only light source.

“Goodnight, Love.”

I turn to my side, my back facing him. My lip twitches at his last word.

“Night,” I whisper, but my eyes stay open.

It’s not like I’ll be falling asleep anytime soon, anyway. I rarely do.