Bend and Break(poly)(bxb)

Seven

My hand is shaking as I raise the fork to my mouth. I don't have an appetite. I haven't had one for days.

It's just my father needs to think everything is okay.

He's watching me but I pretend I don't notice. I'm holding my phone with one hand and occasionally stifling out laughter at things that aren't even funny.

My fork clashes against the table and I realize this doesn't looks okay at all. It's when I'm picking it up that he places his hand over mine. The touch is warm and comforting and everything I need right now but I'm so deep in I can't even show it.

"Mia, I understand you think you have to lie to me. I wouldn't understand if you told the truth. But be honest with yourself at least." I can't look away from him as he speaks. Even as he continues and I feel tears well up. Finally caught, finally noticed. "Youth has things like this. Sadness, parting, you have to accept them. Don't deny them, don't deny your feelings."

"It hurts so much dad." I pull my knees into my chair and bury my tear stained face into them, the soft cotton of the pajama pants I've been wearing all day, before looking up at him again.

"I know. I miss the days of having a first love– even when I lost it. There is nothing more passionate than those emotions. I haven't felt them in years. One day you wake up and you realize along with that person, along with your youth, those emotions are gone. That passion is gone." My father runs his thumb along my palm to soothe me. I shake to prevent myself from sobbing. His brown eyes and brown skin notice me. Softening the wrinkles on his forehead, relaxing his expression into one of worry-free content. My father finally notices me. "He was a beautiful boy and I know the relationship you two shared felt like the most precious thing in the world. Let yourself be sad, sweetheart. Let yourself feel those emotions for a little bit longer."

I nod a tear down my face. Seven deserves this from me at least. If I never see him again and the most I did was hold back my tears and eat all of the ice cream in the house I'll feel even worse.

"I've always wanted to keep you safe. Out of the streets I spent too much time in before becoming a police officer. But you need to feel things too. You still need to experience things." He offers a sad smile and I give one back.

•••

I spend most days alone in my room. I can't feel my leg thanks to the pain medicine so I'm assuming it's healing nicely. None of the guys have reached out to speak to me and I blocked Rosemary's number in a fit of rage. They haven't gotten Seven back yet. Nothing else matters.

I've taken my dad's advice. I've cried everyday for the past week and it's gotten better. I look back on the love I shared with Seven instead of avoiding it.

With his warm eyes and childlike smile, he was the first one I could call a friend. When I wanted to sneak out the first night I spent with them, he stopped me. Shared his room with me and told me stories of all of the gang members from embarrassing to endearing.

The lust between us was a fire that couldn't burn out. As the youngest members of the gang we were like raging teenagers, sneaking off to do any and everything. It was sick. I liked being used as a way to get under Von's skin. And Seven got turned on from me having a panic attack.

There isn't a bone in my body that doesn't love him. I will always want him.

He's enough, almost enough, to distract from how the other three members have been treating me.

L usually checks up on his patients. It's what any half-decent doctor would do. He hasn't contacted me. He's supposed to ask if it still hurts, I'm supposed to say no, and he's supposed to smile. His warm touch on my skin as he checks the wound, changes the bandages or whatever. I want the unspoken words behind his touch. The taboo that is our entire relationship.

I call him like I have countless nights before. Starting with homework help, ending with what I want him to do to me, making him hide somewhere in his home away from his wife and daughter. Like I don't know what he's doing, like I can't hear him coming undone. He doesn't pick up so I try again, and again. The unanswered calls reach the double digits before I decide to leave a voicemail.

"Are you busy, L? I need someone so bad right now...I miss Seven. I miss all of you..." The machine cuts me off before I even figure out what to say next. I delete the message.

I'm an idiot.

Little Mia, Von used to call me. He used to hold me. Before Rosemary. No. I thought she was the reason for us growing apart but it's been happening for months now. I was never really important to him. I was always just a stand-in until she came back. We had a few moments of something that felt genuine but it's completely surrounded by all of the pain he put me through.

It's easy to pull the trigger when you don't care. He left a permanent reminder of how little I mean to him on my shoulder. He left me without a second thought, in a sea of gunshots and strange men. I shouldn't have been surprised. I shouldn't have cried over it for days. It's like I lost two people in one night. But Von was never really there.

Romero was.

I debate calling him. I want his honey colored skin and honey colored voice. A song in my ear. Each word sliding off beautifully.

He's more hurt than anyone by this. Every time he cries, broken ribs adding physical pain to the emotional one.

I have to know how he's doing. I press his number from my 'recent calls.'

I talked with him over the phone more than anyone else. Switching between English and Spanish for hours on end. I'd share stories from my childhood and he'd tell me about the time he was fifteen and almost caught a library on fire playing around with other homeless kids. The time he won ten goldfish at the fair and gave them all away. The time he almost drowned at the beach.

We could talk like that again or we could talk how we would when it'd get really late. He'd be back from selling drugs or making sure another gang wasn't getting too powerful. Tired and laying in his bed alone. Wavy brown hair down to his neck, a damp towel around his waist. He'd tell me exactly how he looked then tell me to touch myself.

Sex, an outlet for him. A bonding activity for me.

We could talk like that but we don't because he doesn't answer either.