We were almost back at the hotel. We'd walked half the journey, a bus accommodating us for the other half. Stepping through the automatic doors and down onto the curb, Woodrow steadied me as my heels wobbled. Even now, I was still crying. . . my eyes not knowing how to stop.
My mouth was dry, like it had to give up its moisture to my eyes.
I licked at my lips like a wounded animal, feeling sorry for itself. It wasn't just that some intoxicated idiot had upset me; he had, but I had tears for more than that. . . he was just the final thing put into my sadness cup, causing it to overfill.
It had been a long time coming because I’d had a fucking hard life.
I'd lost both of my parents, been in captivity for years, and hurt so badly this week, in ways I didn't understand, that even name-calling and cruel jibes—things I was very used to—had set me off, opening the floodgates.
Woodrow wiped away my tears. His fingers on my mottled skin, my hands around his wrists. My mask was peeping through his pocket, his own stuffed in there, too. I wanted to steal them both and hide as much of myself as possible.
“I don't want you to wear it. I'll tell you why when we get inside.”
His eyes loomed to the tower on the other side of the road—our hotel, overlooking the pretty fountains, the water once again dancing high while music played.
He didn't speak another word while we waited at another set of traffic lights, the bright red light blinding me as I glared at it, counting down the seconds until it changed.
I was inside the hotel room, standing in front of the floor-length mirror, my eyes grazing over my appearance. My mascara had left black tracks down my cheeks and my lipstick had rubbed off. I lookeda sight. A dreadful one. My shoulders were bony, my breasts smaller than they’d ever been. My eyes looked vacant.Having your life stolen does that to you.I looked ready for the reaper's collection, ready to sleep forever. . . but at least my dress was pretty. I clutched at the ruffles, stretching them to see the intricate details of beads and jewels as I twirled a little on my toes. I kept my eyes on the dress, not the woman wearing it. I had no interest in seeing a corpse dressed as a bride, dancing to the music that played in her head.
Woodrow's eyes burned me, heating me slightly. Even the cold could burn. But he wasn’t cold; he was warm, trying hard to get me to feel something other than fear and pain as he stared at me from behind, telling me how perfect I looked.
His fingers tipped my chin and mine opened, allowing the length of my dress to reach the thick carpet where my toes were curling. My eyes followed his, roving over every inch of my body. A hand landed on my hips. The light fear of rejection had him trembling against me, but he batted it away, remaining on me. His tongue came out and wet his lips, moving slowly across their fullness, giving me something new to focus on.
“You still haven't told me why you didn't give me the mask.”
He swallowed, and said, “I told you. I told you that your pretty eyes still sparkle behind the sheen of fear. I told you that your smile, when you actually do smile, lights up this side of the world. I told you that you looked beautiful in your dress, and you twirled for me.”
I directed my gaze back to the pretty dress. “I’d have chosen a white dress.”
“Too boring for you. Everyone wears white. You’re one of a kind; you deserved something special.”
“I’m not special.”
“Hush, woman. You’re talking shit.” He drifted off, sitting at the edge of the bed to pull off his shiny black dress shoes. “You’re special to me. I didn’t give you the mask because I wanted you to see what I see. I don’t want you hiding from the world, not when you’ve been hidden from it for so long.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said the first thing that popped into my head, “Does your God approveof that language?”
He rolled his eyes at me. “He believes in forgiveness, I hope.” A quiet laugh slipped through his lips as he tossed his shoes into the distance, meeting mine in the center of the carpet.
I looked at the face in the mirror, not mine, his, as he stepped up behind me. . . so perfectly handsome. He was a cruel contrast as he leaned into me.
“I see a girl stronger than any other, with the prettiest hair—” Hair that he pulled completely away from my face, reapplying the flower pin that had grown loose to hold it back. “And the most beautiful soul. Eyes that tell me stories, dark but beautiful, like the ones on your Kindle.” That kinda made me laugh. . . laugh and then turn into him, my breath on his lips as he spoke again. “I see the scars, and they bring me pain, yes, as much as they do you, but I don't see the unattractiveness you fear. I see my little survivor. My heroine, who still cared for me when she'd been hurt by my hands. I see the girl I fell in love with ten years ago and the woman I’ll never get over. I see you, Moonlight, your beautiful soul, your innocence, and your one-of-a-kind heart, and it's kept me alive for years.”
There was a brief second where he felt he’d said the wrong thing. . . like he didn’t think I’d want to hear those words. . . but he was wrong.
My fingers entwined with his, my mouth breathing into his, our lips brushing.
“I see you, too. I see all the pain, all the regret. I see a soul in turmoil, and a heart breaking. I see all facets of the diamond you are, some a little sharper than others. But I see them all, and I’m not afraid anymore.” The statement didn’t feel like a lie, even if my courage would fade with the waning of alcohol. I took his face in my hands and told him, “I'm sorry. For telling you I accept you, and then taking that acceptance back.”
“Don't be. I'm sorry my parents fucked me up so bad, my pain created monsters that hurt you. Hell has been out of line. He's angry. . . because of what happened to me in prison, because he couldn't save me. He blames you because he can't get to anyone else to release that anger, and because you left. He doesn't believe it's because I told you to; he still doesn’t understand what went on that night. He's hurting because of you and for you, but he doesn't knowhow to deal with that kind of pain; he never knew any kind of love. He's heartbroken."
Woodrow's finger wiped the tear from my eye, the last I'd cry today.
“My strong, beautiful girl. You've survived Hell. . . and—"
“And so much worse.”
“A story for another time?”
