But why does the thought of being a stranger to him make me sad? Makes me really want to beg him to let me stay for longer than I need to recover.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, keeping his hand in mine and caressing his fingers.
He doesn’t seem to be listening, probably lost in the memories this chat brought up.
“She left her baby girl behind. She left me a daughter. I’m picking her up this weekend.” Haden’s voice is raw and raspy, and his face is still deprived of any emotion. It’s as if his body and his mind are two separate entities.
What can I say to that? Because there is something devastating about losing someone you love so deeply, like Haden has with his sister, and then watching their daughter grow up without their mother.
A deafening silence grows between us, but there are no words that can make this better.
I take his other hand in mine when I can’t stand the distance forming between us anymore. I don’t like any of it, so I let my mouth go. “I lost my family when I was sixteen, so I know what losing someone means. I lost all my friends when I chose to be who I really am. My life took a turn I never expected or wanted when I trusted my ex. I would change every single choice I made, except for coming out of the closet.”
His grip tightens to the point of pain, but at the same time something changes inside me and some of the agony living there rent free lifts, making breathing a little easier.
“People suck.”
“Not all of them…” So that he knows I’m talking about him, I squeeze his hand just for a few seconds.
We stay like this in silence, nursing our teas, our hands still linked, and everything outside this room looking like a bad memory.
CHAPTER 9
Haden
“What are you doing?”
I watch him jump in surprise, and his scared scream sounds more like a baby’s cry than an adult one. It makes my lips curve up, but I push them down.
Don’t get involved, I chastise myself. He’s not your long-term problem. It’s just for a couple of days, and then you’ll be back to your usual life. Sort of. I push thoughts of Arianna away, because those are frightening thoughts.
I’ve been a little awkward since opening up last night… more than I usually am anyway. That rule we applied early this morning doesn’t say anything about feeling like you cut through your own skin, muscles, and bones to expose the deepest part of yourself. It doesn’t say how that feeling doesn’t go away the next day, and you can’t hide that part of you any longer.
I don’t believe we can ever go back to not knowing what we each went through. Or ever forget how connected we were in that moment. When his hand touched mine, it was as if I found an anchor, or a change of wind, that for a moment put a stop to the tornado my life had become since my parents threw me out, since that day I nearly died by their hand.
I ignore the feelings in my chest, and focus on the task at hand, scolding him for doing something he shouldn’t be doing. I don’t want to be affected by those beautiful, soul-deep eyes, and those lips I touched so briefly too long ago.
I shake my head to remove those memories that would lead to stupid decisions. One stupid decision, a long time ago, robbed me of my family, my sister, and a place to call home.
Having him here is making me weak, and inclined to desire things that could bring heartache. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.
“What are you doing?” I repeat when he ignores me and continues cleaning the table. It comes out harsher than I want, but my composure is fucked. I reach out to take the cloth fromhis hand when he groans as his upper body leans against the table to clean the side furthest away from him.
Stupid man.
“Hey,” he protests, and uses his hands to push himself upwards. “I was using that.”
“I saw that,” I say, glaring at him. “And you shouldn’t be. What you should be doing is resting.”
“I can’t sit here all day and do nothing. It drives me crazy.”
I look at him and understand what he’s referring to. Those thoughts that swarm inside the brain, mulling over and over and crowding it, until there’s no space for anything else and you believe you’re going crazy.
Sometimes I want to scream, but I’m aware that doesn’t help. How do I know? Because that first time, after that first betrayal, it was what I did for months. But no one was listening, and no one cared.
I’m still screaming inside my head at the injustice of it all. It hasn’t solved anything, and it hasn’t provided any help.
I’ve become better at hiding the feelings festering under the surface, though, the thoughts that once used to show on my face but are no longer there. People stay away when there’s nothingshowing on your face, or when your body is a sign to prevent them from getting close. I prefer it this way.
