The Lost Village by Sten, Camilla (reading women TXT) 📕

“Looks like someone’s painted you with purple watercolors,” he says, running his fingertips gently over the skin above my ribs. I gasp when he presses slightly too hard.

“Does that hurt?” he asks, without lifting his hand.

“Yes,” I say. I pull away slightly and roll my top down again. “How are you feeling?” I ask, tucking my hair behind my ear.

Max shrugs.

“Empty, somehow,” he says. “Does that sound weird? I feel completely blunted.”

“I know what you mean,” I say. My eyes wander the room in the overripe afternoon light.

“It doesn’t feel real,” I say slowly. “None of it does.”

“No,” says Max.

“How is…” I have to swallow before I can say his name. “How’s Robert?”

“I don’t know,” says Max. “He’s not saying so much. Not that he was so talkative to begin with, but now…”

“Where is he?” I ask. “He isn’t outside on his own, is he?”

“He’s in the kitchen,” says Max. “Not that that matters now. I mean, she’s locked upstairs.”

She.

As though she were a monster, a ghost. A shadow without a name.

“Hey,” Max says softly, then reaches out to stroke my cheek with his thumb, and I realize it’s because I’m crying. The tears spill over without me being able to stop them. I try to wipe them off, shake my head.

“It’s OK,” I say.

“No, it isn’t,” says Max, and then I crumble.

I bawl, a sob that runs so forcefully through my body that it feels like I’m cramping up. Max wraps his arms around me and holds me to his chest. The tears run out of my closed eyelids as I cry a hacking, ugly cry, like a blubbering child, uncontrolled and uninhibited. The words I’m muttering make no sense.

I think I say “Emmy.” Or else “sorry.”

Max is rubbing my back hard, and it hurts—so much that it makes me whimper every time he touches my bruise—but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Shh,” he says, petting me like an unruly cat. “It’ll be OK. I’m here. I’m here.”

I feel my snot running into his T-shirt and try to sit up, but he won’t let me go.

“I’m here,” he says again.

“I never meant for this to happen,” I whisper into his top, where my words dissolve unheard. “It wasn’t meant to be like this. It wasn’t meant to be like this. I didn’t know.”

Max kisses my head. Dry lips on my sweaty scalp.

“We’re going to get through this, Alice,” he says into my hair. “We’ll get through this, we’ll get past it. I promise. I’ve got you. It’s going to be OK.”

He keeps on rubbing my back, and my sobs have started to calm. I try to pull away again, and this time he lets go of me.

I dry my nose. Max looks at me and half smiles again. Up close, his pupils are huge.

“I’m here,” he whispers, and touches my cheek.

His caress turns into a light grip on my neck, and he pulls my face into his and kisses me.

His lips are rough, and his mouth tastes rank and too sweet, of blood and sugar. I try to pull back but he moves with me, forcing his tongue into my mouth. It’s only when I forcefully twist my head away that he stops.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask, staring at him as I wipe my mouth with my hand.

His small, warm smile gradually slips off his face.

“What do you mean?” he asks, defensiveness already creeping into his voice.

“What are you doing?” I repeat, standing up. I feel like I need to get to my feet, take a wide stance to steady the ground beneath me. My head is spinning.

“I thought it was what you wanted,” says Max. “I was trying to comfort you.”

“By shoving your tongue down my throat?” I splutter. I almost start to laugh. It’s so absurd—with everything else that has happened. In the middle of this terrible, broken situation.

“So then why did you kiss me back?” he asks. “You didn’t seem to be hating it.”

“I didn’t kiss back,” I say. “I … I was shocked.”

Now Max stands up, too. He gives his pants a good brush to get the dust off the denim, despite the blood and tears on his top, despite the dust and wood chips all over his body.

“Maybe it wasn’t the right time,” he says.

Reasonable. Always so reasonable.

I shake my head.

“Emmy’s dead, Tone’s sick—so sick we’ve had to lock her up—and you—” I say, my voice getting shriller with every word until he cuts me off.

“I’m sorry! OK? I said I’m sorry! This hasn’t been an easy day for me either, OK? I guess I lost my self-control. It was stupid. I get it.” He throws up his hands, then rubs his face and sighs.

I shake my head, trying to get my breath back under control.

“We’re all in shock. These things happen. Let’s forget it.”

He looks at me. Something flickers in his eyes.

He opens his mouth, but at first he says nothing. Then:

“So when is the right time?”

His voice is soft. I don’t know what to say.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, Alice,” he says, with an almost resigned laugh. “You know what I mean. I’ve been waiting seven years. Waiting, and listening, and being there for you. Waiting for you to wake up and realize. So when is the right time?”

I swallow.

“I didn’t know,” I say, trying to keep my voice as quiet and nonconfrontational as possible. “I’m sorry, Max, but I’m not … I mean…”

He looks up at the ceiling.

“No,” he says. “You cannot tell me you didn’t know. I know you saw it. Why do you think I sponsored your little film? It’s not like I’m getting that money back.”

“I thought you believed in the film,” I say helplessly.

“I did it because I believed in you, Alice.” He shakes his head. “I saw the look on your face when I said I’d come here,” he says. “Come on. We both knew it was going to happen here.”

All I can do is stare at him.

“Alice,” he says softly, taking a step