“You let me in, and it made me realize that I’ve never let anyone see all of me, either. You know the most, but even you don’t know everything. But… I think it might help. I think knowing this might help you understand where I’m coming from.”
I inhale deeply and launch in.
“My parents were teenagers—my mom was 16 when I was born. I was just a baby and there was a car accident… she died. My bio dad apparently decided he couldn’t do it—didn’t want to, most likely. Obviously, Abuela stepped up. She raised me. She was strict, but I’ve never doubted that she loves me. She always told me I was a gift from God, but I heard the whispers. To everyone else in the community, I was the unwanted bastard of a loose, immoral girl who deserved the wrath of God.”
Wesley makes an appalled noise.
“Some Catholics can be pretty judgmental,” I shrug. At this point, I’m over it—it’s a fact about the world that’s too exhaustingly true to be worth any more emotions. “I think it made me… angry. Closed off. I didn’t understand how people could be so unkind and hate me for something that wasn’t my fault. The kids at school were mean, too, and it really only made me lean into theprickly bitchpersona.
“Eventually, I got into computers and started making online friends, and things really changed for me. I found more acceptance from strangers who were miles away than I’d ever experienced from the people close to home. And once I realized I could learn anything I wanted? Game over.”
“It was similar for me,” he says, sounding pleased to have this in common. “Bullied in school, and found my niche in computers.”
“I knew that, I think. You have that way about you.” I smile against his collarbone. “Abuela started having memory problems when I was about 18. It started small, but it got bad kind of quickly. Then she had a fall and couldn’t walk or take care of herself, and I… I had to step up. It was more than supporting both of us—I became her nursemaid and only companion. When girls my age were going to college and exploring what it means to be an adult, I was helping Abuela go to the bathroom.
“Do you know what people call you when you’re orphaned as a baby, bullied in school, grow up lonely and then have to take care of your grandmother—the person who’s supposed to take care of you—on your own by the time you’re 20?”
He shakes his head.
“Resilient. They mean it like such a compliment, too. Resilient,” I repeat, wanting to spit out the bitter taste of the word.
“Being resilient is good, right? Instead of breaking, you bend. You adapt. You grow.”
“Yeah,” I agree with a sharp laugh. “Yeah. But… I’m so fucking tired of being resilient. I just don’t know how to be any other way.”
He sweeps his hand up my back in comfort, and I shiver against the touch and clutch him tighter. “I’m tired of being strong. I’m tired of proving myself. I want acceptance, and I don’t want to have to hide or change who I am to get it. And I’m so tired of pretending not to care.” My voice takes on a wet, musical tone, and I rear back. I let him see the moisture pooling in the corners of my eyes. “I like it here. I like Nicole and Eleanor and Mac and Dimitri. I like you.”
He smiles and reaches up to brush away a tear for me.
I inhale shakily at the tender contact. “I’m tired of not letting myself want things. I want this. You and me.”
The earnestness of my declaration is reflected back to me for a long moment, only to crystalize into a steely kind of resolve. I know he’s decided the same thing I have—that we’ll do whatever it takes.
I smile. “Secretly, I kind of love that you want to take care of me, but I don’t know how to let you. I’m willing to learn what it means, but youhaveto be openwith me. I’ve been the only one in charge of everything for a decade. I want to give control to you, but it doesn’t come easy.”
“I think I understand that now. I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“I know,” I say, loving that it’s as easy for me to forgive as it was for him to apologize. It’ll make fights much simpler between us. “Do you remember what you said to me in the bathtub when you were taking such good care of me after I’d been attacked and I was shell-shocked?”
It’s not what he was expecting, so it takes him a second to adjust. “Erm… I remember saying some things,” he admits.
“It’s okay; it was a leading question. I’m going to tell you,” I wink. “You said that I was yours.”
“I did.” He nods.
“But,” I add, lifting a finger. “You said that you’remine, too.”
His lips twitch at the corners, and I slide my hands up to cup his jaw. “Do you know what I mean when I say you’re mine?” I say, repeating his words back to him.
He shakes his head.
“It means that we trust each other. We fight for each other. We’re honest about everything, even the stuff that’s embarrassing or makes us feel unlovable. Weseeeach other. Okay?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue.I love you.And I can feel that he loves me, too. But… it’s not quite the right moment. When I tell him that I love him, I want it to stand on its own. I want it to be the only emotion, not on the heels of an apology.
He slides his hands around me, dragging me forward until I’m resting my forehead against his. The smile he offers is so full of relief and hope, I almost start crying again like a total dweeb.
“Okay.”
