He runs his fingers through his hair again and messes it up, making the strands fall on his forehead, making me clench my fists again so I don’t accidentally run to him and smooth them away.
“I remembered,” he begins with a slightly lost expression on his face, “that I liked to read. When I was a kid. Which isn’t a surprise because I’ve always been a straight-A student. Given the choice though, I’d rather watch game tapes than sit and read, but…”
“But?”
He shrugs, his shoulders jerking up and down tightly. “But I guess I’m trying to see if it sticks, reading. Getting a hobby.” He swallows tightly, audibly even. “Not sure how my dad would react to it though. I, uh, try to picture his expression. You know, if he knew that I was using my time to read, for pleasure. Something other than textbooks, instead of working on my game. But I can’t. I can’t picture it. I know what my mom would say. She’d tell me that while it was commendable I was taking an interest in books, I’m still wasting my time reading English literature. She’d probably throw them away.”
My chest feels tight and I let out a breath as I watch him, watch how he stands, a little away from the door, how his toes dig into the carpet, how his fists are clenched.
How adrift and unmoored he looks.
“You’re not. You’re not wasting your time and I don’t think your dad would mind,” I tell him, wishing again that I could touch him.
I wish I could go to him and ask him how it was while he was growing up.
I only know bits and pieces of it from after I came to live with him, and I wish I could talk to him about all of it.
“Actually, I think that even if he did mind, I wouldn’t care. Not so much. Not as much as I thought I would. I think I’d…” He pauses and licks his lips, pondering his next words. “I think I’d mind more if I didn’t get to read. If I didn’t get to find out what else I like. What else I can do. What else is hidden inside of me other than The Blond Arrow.”
My knees tremble. They almost buckle at his words.
It’s a mystery really how I’m able to stand up.
Actually, I’m lying.
I know how. It’s him.
It’s his eyes, the power and intensity in them. He’s keeping me tethered and balanced.
“Is that what your therapist told you? To find out what’s hidden inside of you?” I ask with choppy breaths.
He shakes his head slowly. “No. It was someone else.”
I take a moment to just… breathe.
I take a moment to just stand on my feet and watch him. To absorb what he just said.
For the past two weeks, I’ve been going crazy.
I’ve been making up theories in my head. About why he’s doing what he’s doing.
Is it to punish himself and atone for his supposed mistakes when it comes to me? Or is there something else?
Something… wonderful.
Something that scares me. Something that steals my breath and gives me hope.
It’s giving me hope right now and I’m petrified.
“It’s been two weeks,” I whisper after a while.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you come see me?”
His nostrils flare and his chest undulates on a large breath. “I was going to come see you.”
“You were?”
