And before I know it, I’m in Conin’s bedroom, sitting on the toilet in the attached bathroom. It’s cold. Everything is so cold. The damp clothes continue to soak my body.
“Angle yourself this way, please,” Conin says while nudging me. His voice sounds admonishing. I can’t help but feel guilty at his tone. Expertly, Conin ties my hair into a bun. His tongue pokes out slightly as he wraps and cords the long locks of hair. I see the subtle quirk on his lips—the smile tilting slowly upwards. This makes me happy. It makes me so undeniably happy.
I remember when I first showed Conin how to tie it, a year or two ago when my hair had finally become long enough to achieve a bun. This memory is muddled now, but I remember how eager Conin was to learn. My heart could not be tamed through the entire process.
As my traitorous mind does, another thought arises. Melissa.
“What was she doing over here?” these traitorous lips ask.
“We were hanging out, Ez,” he responds.
“You like her, don’t you?” I say. I can’t fucking shut up.
“We’re just friends,” he says back.
I scoff. He clucks his tongue—similar to Ms. Bresshet. Conin asks me something, and I might’ve said yes, and then I’m being stripped of my clothes. I’m too much in a daze to do anything about it. There may be vomit on my hoodie. I feel a tad better when I’m bare of the wet apparel, but I’m suddenly aware of my body, its scars, and Conin . . . how he can see me. Conin’s seen my scars, but never like this. Not all of them. Not all at once. The ones on my arms, sure, just not the scars etched into my chest, stomach, back, legs. Exposed, I start to cry, grateful for Conin’s careful attentiveness through the state I’m in.
“Don’t look at me,” I sob.
“It’s okay,” he says. His voice is soothing. “Let’s get you into new clothes.”
In the blink of an eye, I’m lying atop Conin’s bed. I’m clothed and under the sheets. They’re warm and inviting. They smell of him, of Conin, of the man that I love. In heavy droves, the numbness of sleep washes over me. I succumb to its bliss.
Chapter 6
Conin
Ezra’s in my bed asleep while I sit curled up in my closet, a hysterical mess. The tears fall copiously in large, uncontrollable drops. And no matter how hard I try to keep them at bay, they slip from my eyes in a torrential downpour.
I rub my palms on the carpet. They grow angry and red. But compared to Ezra and the absolute bullshit his family put him through, this pain is nothing. I’m angry. I’m so, so angry. I’m furious that the family which was supposed to show Ezra unconditional love failed him so miserably. I’m enraged they’d abuse him this way—enraged at myself for never doing anything about it even when I knew his home life was grisly.
The excruciating images of his scars stain my mind. My shoulders are still tense from the sore sight—a lingering pain that sprouted and worsened from football practice earlier in the day.
I’ve seen the lacerations on his arms before but was clueless about the ones on his torso and legs, the unmapped portionof his body in the early stages of exploration. My culpability increases. I’ve wanted to see him, to have him, but not this way . . . not with this tainted image and with him at his most vulnerable.
What kind of shitty friend am I? When I’ve had time to breathe and let my sobs run their course, relief washes in. Above all else, I’m relieved Ezra is okay. Starting today, I’ll become that better friend Ezra needs me to be.
I’ll sleep on the floor tonight, so I rummage through my closet for the sleeping bag Ezra would use on the nights he stayed over. It’s rolled up, clasped together with a single strap. I let it unravel near the base of the bed—Ezra’s soft snores carry from on top, instilling ease I haven’t felt since he arrived. If I leave Ezra unattended and if I’m not by his side like those nights in junior high when we’d share the same sheets, I fear what could happen.
Because I wish I could join him in bed. Share it like we used to. The comfortable flush of our bodies, his mirth over whatever show I turned on for the both of us, the way he’d fall asleep with his head on my chest and his fingers clutched to the fabric of my shirt. But I won’t join him. I won’t be someone Ezra can’t trust or confide in. I need to be the one to hold him up and the pillar to help him back on his feet. I can’t be the one who uses him, have him realize he made the mistake of ever being my friend in the first place.
As the night carries on, these cycling thoughts lull into whispers. Ezra’s reassuring breaths are a merciful reprieve. And after an hour or so, I’m enveloped in a faux calm—enough for me to sleep.
Hours later, a flash of panic finds me. I scramble to a standing position and almost totter to the bed, but Ezra is safe andsound, snuggled under the weight of the blankets. He’s asleep, unstirring, hair in disarray. Ezra is adorable with his mouth parted slightly. He looks tranquil, like the innocence of a child. I move to gently brush the locks of hair that scatter over him. His hair is ridiculously long now, but it’s easily his best feature.
In this state, it’s almost easy to forget his scars, a reminder that he isn’t the undefiled boy of our past. The upset and worry from last night returns. I know I won’t be able to sleep any longer, so I turn to my desk and continue the onslaught on the never-ending pile of homework. Another two hours pass in complete silence. Nothing I’ve studied is retained. And I’ve managed little more than staring into the void for the last half hour.
I need to fix this. Ezra needs to leave his home, come live here, and be safe under my protection. I’m familiar with what it’s like to be hurt by a father. What happened with my dad isn’t the same as what’s happening here. It’s worse, it’s so much worse, and I can’t subject Ezra to the abuse any longer.
“It’s the fucking weekend, Co. Cut that shit out,” Ezra says.
I place the pen on the sprawled notebook and turn to take him in. He’s pressed against the headboard, hair disheveled, but tied into that signature bun. A stony mask blinks back. Does he remember what happened last night? Does he know why he’s here?
“What are you looking at?” he retorts.
“Nothing,” I say and laugh in relief. “Want some breakfast?”
Chapter 7
