Brooks never asked me about my panic attacks again, and I was happy about that. It was something I wasn’t ready to talk about yet, and Brooks understood. I knew, though, if there was a day I was ready, he’d be willing to listen, and that meant more to me than he’d ever know.
Instead of filling our summer with serious topics, we filled it with kisses. When we weren’t kissing, we created our own to-do list for a future together. I liked the way he believed in me someday leaving the house.
I liked the idea of me seeing the world with him by my side.
“It’s gonna be great, Maggie. Plus, since I’m going to college one town over, I can come see you every afternoon after school is out. It’s gonna be easy,” Brooks often said. His hope in us made me more hopeful than ever.
Then, we’d go back to kissing. Kissing, and kissing only.
I wasn’t good at the good stuff.
It wasn’t a surprise I wasn’t good at the good stuff, because I’d never had a boyfriend to practice any of the things people did when they were in relationships. Whenever Brooks came over and his hands started to wander, I tensed up—not because he touched me—I wanted him to—but because I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to touch him back.
It was embarrassing. I hated it. I felt as if I’ve read enough books with enough sex references to be able to know how to touch my boyfriend, but it was far from the truth.
“It’s fine, really.” Brooks smiled, standing up from one of our kissing sessions that always led to more kissing. “We don’t have to rush.”
I didn’t feel rushed, though. I felt stupid. Where do I put my hands? Would that feel good to him? How do I know if he really likes it?
“I better get downstairs for band practice.” He straightened out the crotch area of his jeans, which made me feel even worse. I was such an accidental tease. “I’ll see you downstairs, all right?”
I nodded. He leaned in and kissed my forehead before hurrying away.
The moment he was out of sight, I grabbed my pillow, placed it over my face, and silently screamed into it. My legs kicked back and forth in frustration. Ugh!
When I heard quiet whimpering, I looked up from my pillow to see Cheryl walking down the hallway, holding her cheek. She hurried into her bedroom and slammed the door.
I was there two seconds later, knocking.
“Go away!” she shouted.
I knocked once. No.
I listened to her groan. “Please just go, Maggie. I know it’s you.”
Turning the knob, I slowly opened her bedroom door to see her standing in front of her mirror, touching a slice under her eye that was dripping blood down her cheek.
“Goddammit, Maggie! Don’t you know how to listen?”
Walking closer, I made her face me and examined her cut. Tilting my head, I gave her a questioning stare.
She grimaced. “Jordan thought since I had him drive me back from prom weeks ago, it meant we were back together. And seeing how I hated being alone, I went back to him. But it turned out, he didn’t fully forgive me, and as the weeks went on, he became more and more mean. So, when I told him I didn’t want to be with him anymore…he got a bit…upset.”
My chest tightened.
“Don’t freak out, okay?” she warned as she slowly turned her back to me and lifted up her t-shirt. My hands flew over my mouth as I stared at her red skin, where it looked like Jordan beat her.
Cheryl…
Snickering, she said, “If you think that’s bad, you should see him.”
I frowned.
She frowned, too.
He had probably walked away without a hair out of place, leaving my sister with scars not only on her body, but also on her mind.
I walked off and went to the bathroom to get a wet washcloth and a bandage. When I came back, I led her to her bed, pulled her desk chair over, and sat down. As I started cleaning her cut, her body trembled the whole time.