"Morning," he says. "How long have you been awake?"
"A while."
"Doing what?"
"Reading your tattoos."
He smiles. I can feel it against the top of my head. "Find anything interesting?"
"The numbers on your shoulder. I could never read them from far away. What are they?"
"Coordinates. Latitude and longitude of the bar. Got them the week after Dad died." His fingers keep moving in my hair. "Everybody was telling me to sell. I couldn't do it. I put the address on my body instead. That way no matter where I go, I can always find my way back home."
He says it like it's nothing. The numbers are right there on his shoulder and I think about a stolen motorcycle pointed south with no destination and no map and how I ended up here. At the exact spot inked on his skin.
"I'm glad you didn't sell," I say.
"Me too, baby." His arm tightens around me. "Me too. How are you feeling today?"
"I'm feeling better," I say. "Tex, I need to talk to you." I can't put this off, because every minute I wait is a minute I'm lying to him by omission. And I want to get it over with.
His hand doesn't stop moving in my hair. His body doesn't tense. "Okay. Talk to me, baby. What's on your mind?"
I sit up. I need to not be touching him for this. I need to be looking at him and saying the words because if I whisper them into his chest while he holds me, I'll never get through it.
I'm sitting cross-legged on the bed, facing him. The sheet pools in my lap. He's looking at me with those brown eyes, giving me the space to find the words.
"Before you," I start. I clear my throat and try again. "Before you, there were men. And they... the things they did to me weren't..." I stop. The words are stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat, caught in the shame.
"Take your time," he says. Quiet. Steady. Not reaching for me to close the distance. Just there.
"The things they did weren't things I chose." I say it. Out loud. "None of it was anything I willingly chose."
His jaw tightens under the beard. I see the muscle flex, once, and his eyes change. Understanding slots into place behind them.
"It started when I was ten." I don't know why I tell him. I wasn't planning to go this far so soon. But the box is open now and the words are coming out and I can't stop them. "My mother's boyfriend. He was the first. I didn't understand what was happening. I just knew it hurt. I couldn't tell anyone because he said if I did, he would hurt my mother and it would be my fault."
Tex's eyes are wet. He hasn't moved. He hasn't reached for me. He's sitting with his back against the headboard and his hands at his sides. His eyes are filling with tears and he's letting them fill because he knows that if he moves, if he touches me, if he does anything to make this about his feelings instead of mine, I'll stop talking.
"It got worse. Different places. Different men. Different situations." I look at my hands in my lap. They're shaking. "I'm not ready to tell you everything. Not yet. But I will. I promise I'll tell you because I want you to know. I want you to know all of it because I don't want anything between us that's hidden."
"Okay," he says. Just that. No pressure. No questions.
"The reason I'm telling you this now is because..." The hot shame surges and I have to breathe through it, have to push the words past the thing in my throat that wants to choke them back. "I need to get tested. Before we go any further. Before I... before I put my mouth on you or we do anything without... I need to know that I'm not carrying anything. That I'm not going to infect you. Hurt you."
My voice breaks on the last word and the tears come. Ugly tears that bend you forward and make your shoulders shake and your nose run and your face crumble. I'm cryingin Tex's bed with the shame pouring out of me like it's been dammed up for years. I can't stop it and I can't control it.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I keep apologizing like it's my fault, like any of it was ever my fault. "I finally found someone I want. For the first time in my life, I actually want someone. I chose you and now I might not be able to — I might be —" The words won't come straight. "What if I'm carrying something that means I can never touch you the way I want to? What if they took that from me too? They already took everything else and now the one thing I finally want for myself might be the one thing I can't have because of what they did to my body."
I'm shaking and I can't stop.
"I should have told you before last night. Before we kissed. Before any of it. You deserved to know before you put your mouth anywhere near mine. And I was too selfish because I wanted it so badly, Tex. I wanted one good thing so much that I kissed you. I'm sorry for what I am. I'm sorry that I'm this broken thing that showed up at your bar and you were so good to me and I can't even give you —"
I can't finish. The sobs take the rest of the sentence.
Tex moves. Slowly, carefully, the way he does everything with me. He slides across the bed and he puts his hands on either side of my face and he tilts my head up until I'm looking at him. His face is wet. Tears in his beard, tears tracking down his cheeks, and he's not trying to hide them. He's not trying to be strong. He's crying for me. He's sitting in this bed with tears running into his beard and he's crying for the ten-year-old boy who couldn't tell anyone.
"Listen to me," he says. His voice is the steadiest thing I've ever heard. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing. Not one single thing. What happened to you was not yourfault. It was never your fault. Not at ten and not after and not any of the places in between."
