“And you slept... ?” My words trailed off. Did he sleep in the bed with me?
Clay gave me a small smile. I was so happy to see it after the drama of last night. “I slept on the couch.”
“Oh,” I said, not sure what else to say, kind of bummed that we hadn’t been together all night.
I was disappointed to feel the renewal of the old awkwardness that had disappeared from our relationship over the past month. It was like putting on shoes that you had grown out of; not right. But our friendship had taken a drastic turn last night and I didn’t know where we would go from here. Clay had some major demons and I had no idea what they meant for him or us.
“Bathroom?” I asked, my voice scratchy from too little sleep.
Clay continued to stare at me with his unreadable expression. “Down the hall on the right. There’s an extra toothbrush and towels on the shelf.” I scampered out of the room, sliding past Clayton, who had yet to move. I locked myself in the cheery bathroom. It was decorated in a bright nautical theme, with boats and fish painted on the walls. A little perky for my mood, if you asked me.
I really needed a shower. So I ran the water, stripped off my clothes, and stood under the hot spray. I stood there for an endless moment, letting the droplets drip down my body. I closed my eyes and replayed my night with Clay over and over in my head. What had happened to him? What was going on with him? Finally I turned off the shower and grabbed a fluffy yellow towel and dried off. I hated to put my dirty clothes back on but, considering my overnight bag was at Rachel’s, I didn’t have a choice. I found a comb and the extra toothbrush, still in its packaging, under the sink. I took my time working through the tangles in my hair and then put it back in the dreaded ponytail. Rachel would kill me if she saw it.
I brushed my teeth and started to feel semihuman again. Looking in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. I looked exhausted, with dark circles ringing my eyes and pasty skin. I took a deep breath and finally left the bathroom, slowly making my way back down the hall.
I entered Clay’s room quietly and found him sitting on the bed, his hands hanging limply between his knees. He looked up when I moved toward him, his eyes as tired as I felt.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. I sat beside him on the bed and said nothing. Clayton’s hands trembled and he clasped them in front of him. “I don’t know what to say to you right now. Please tell me how I can make this better,” he pleaded. I sat up straight, needing all of my strength to confront him.
“How about the truth? Enough with the evasive crap. Just tell me what’s going on with you.”
Clayton took a deep breath. “Yeah. I guess I owe you that.”
“You think?” I snarked, feeling bad when I saw the hurt flash across his face.
“Mags. You are the best friend I have ever had. I don’t know many people that would have stayed after all of that last night, particularly after the way I treated you at that party. You’re way too good for me.” He sounded so sad and I hated it. I took his left hand in mine and held it lightly, not wanting to frighten him off.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” Clay mumbled, turning his hand over until his fingers laced with mine. Just like they had last night as I held him.
“How about the beginning? That’s usually a good place to start,” I suggested, urging him on.
“Sure. The beginning.” He stood up abruptly and moved to the window, looking outside.
“Well, I guess I should start by telling you the real reason I’m living here in Virginia and not in Florida with my parents. We had a rough relationship, to say the least. They are pretty well off. My dad is the district attorney for Miami–Dade County and my mom’s a party-coordinating, pearl-earring–wearing, gin-and-tonic-at-nine-a.m. kind of socialite. They are on the inside of the social scene in Miami. I grew up with politicians and celebrities coming to my house for barbecues. But they have never been what you would call ‘warm’ parents. I was raised mostly by hired nannies who came and went out of my life, like a revolving door.”
I tried to picture a little Clay all alone in a big house with no one who gave a damn about him. What a sad and lonely life. Clay turned to look at me and I could see tiny pieces of his perfectly erected wall start to crumble.
“When I was ten years old I started to have . . . issues. I became wild and angry. I would fly into these rages and destroy my bedroom, break windows, threaten my parents.” His words instantly brought to mind his behavior last night. What he was describing was exactly what I had witnessed right here in his bedroom.
“I would go through periods where everything was fine. I was the picture-perfect son, getting straight A’s. I would be on fire playing for the lacrosse team; everything was awesome. Then it would change and I would get angry, depressed.” I shivered, imagining what he described. I had witnessed these erratic mood swings myself. One day Clay would be my best friend; the next, he would ignore me completely. Then there was the craziness of last night.
“I would lock myself in my room for days. And I would . . . hurt myself.” His words made my stomach clench.
“Hurt yourself? Like, how?” I waited in dread for his answer, not sure I really wanted to hear it, but I couldn’t stop him now that he was actually opening up.
“When I was thirteen I discovered that when I cut myself, or burned myself with a lighter . . . I felt, I don’t know . . . better, somehow. That it stopped the craziness in my head and helped me focus. It became sort of like an addiction. I needed the pain to feel something close to normal, as weird as that sounds.”
Clay slowly peeled his shirt over his head and he stood there, bare chested in front of his window. He took my breath away at the sheer beauty of what was before me. But then, upon closer inspection, I could see something else.
I stood up and walked over to him. I could see white scars crisscrossing his chest and running down his arms. How had I not noticed these before? I reached out and lightly touched my fingertip to a particularly large scar that ran from one side of his chest to the other.
“How did you do this?” I whispered, touching the raised skin.
Clay shivered under my touch but didn’t move away. He closed his eyes as I continued to explore the map of scars on his body with my eyes and fingers. “That one was made with a piece of glass. I was high on cocaine and needed the pain to feel grounded. The cutting wasn’t my only addiction. I already told you about that.”
I dropped my hand and took a step backward. Dear God, how could he destroy himself like that? I just couldn’t wrap my mind around someone driven to hurt themselves in that way. It was completely outside my realm of experience.
Clay put his shirt back on and turned away from me again. “By the time I was fourteen I was pretty heavy into drugs and drinking. There wasn’t a day that went by that I wasn’t loaded... and cutting. I was so deep into my self-destruction that nothing else mattered. My parents were never around. My so-called friends were only there for the drugs I could score with my parents’ money. I really didn’t have anyone that gave a shit about the fact that I was slowly killing myself. And I hated myself, Maggie. I meanreally hatedmyself. I thought about suicide every day. I wanted to die, but was too much of a pussy to outright do it.”
