“Yeah.”
“Ross...”
“Just... gimme a moment.” I don’t even trust my voice, it’s too thick. What the fuck’s wrong with me?
“It’s okay,” she says after a few breaths, and her hands draw circles on my back, a mirror of what I did for her last night. “It’s okay. Hey... I have a question.”
I draw a long breath, fight whatever it is that’s gripped me so hard. “What?”
“Am I your girlfriend?”
I still, the breath I drew burning my lungs. Then I pull away and paste on a grin. “Girlfriend?”
“Yeah.” Then she laughs, cheeks reddening. “God, this is so high school. Sorry.”
“No. I mean, yes.”
Fuck.
“Make up your mind.” But she’s still laughing, softly now, unsteadily. Nervously. “Yes or no?”
“I just... don’t get it. Why would you wanna be with me?” I blurt out.
“Can’t you tell why?” she whispers, and I shake my head.
I don’t... I can’t. Can’t figure this out. The heavy feeling is back, pressing on my chest. My scars are itching like hell, and I have the sudden damn urge to get out of here.
I get to my feet so fast I almost fall over, and then I’m muttering some excuse and getting the hell out of the house, letting the screen door slam behind me. Fuck, I can’t breathe.
Stumbling down the porch steps, I lurch down, toward the river. I need...something but dunno what it is. My skin feels like it’s stretched too tight over my bones.
“Can’t you tell why?”
Too much, it’s too damn much, the weight of this moment, the pleasure of it, still undefined but still reeling me in so fast my head is spinning. What is she trying to tell me, to show me? How can I trust it? She’s sweet. I don’t trust... sweet, and kind. Makes me suspicious. I always thought kindness is a trap, a snare, until she came. My gut tells me to keep poking at it, testing it, fighting it to see if it’s real—and then I have to fight to make myself stop and believe it.
It’s damn e
xhausting.
Peeling my T-shirt off, I stop at the edge of the water and crouch down to splash my face.
Her concern, her affection, her forgiveness, her smiles. They’re real, right? They’re real. Let her in, Ross. Let your girl in.
I’m chanting this new mantra to myself, over and over, waiting for it to sink in and take root, when I hear steps behind me. By the time I get up and turn, she’s taken a step back, a hand over her mouth, eyes wide in the morning light.
“Oh God, Ross... your back.”
Well, fuck. Fuck me for forgetting about it, for thinking she wouldn’t mind the ugly scars and the story of weakness they tell. That takes care of my hard-on, that’s for damn sure. It’s like a bucket of ice-cold water dumped over my back.
My turn to step back and I almost fall into the stream, my bare feet slipping on rocks and pebbles, a new mantra forming in my mind, and it goes like this: “fuckfuckfuckfuck...”
“Did your dad do that?” she asks, a horrified whisper that sends me another step back into the cold water, the hems of my jeans drenched and heavy. “How did he...? That wasn’t done with a knife.”
“His belt,” I hear myself reply, my voice oddly calm despite the howling inside my head. “The buckle cuts deep if you hit hard enough.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” she whispers, hushed. “All these years...”
“I’m sorry.” I try to swallow, my throat bone-dry. “I know they’re damn ugly. Didn’t want you to see.”