I wanted to say yes. But I also wanted to curl up and disappear, to claw my way out of my own skin and escape whatever I was carrying.
Instead, I just stared at the pool table’s green felt, torn in one corner and patched with duct tape. A perfect circle of cigarette burn in the center. I wondered if the scar would ever fade.
“My mom was scary tonight, I just need a break from it.” I admitted, ashamed of appearing so vulnerable and shaken.
He looked at me with a tenderness I didn’t deserve, that made me want to punch something, maybe even him. “You can stay as long as you need,” he said, voice full of that rare patience that I always wanted but couldn’t accept.
I tried to say thank you, but my throat squeezed shut around the words.
All my life, I had a warped sense of love.
Love wasn’t soft, kind or pure. Love was filled with screams and terror. It was bloody and dark.
I said, “If I stay here, she’ll get pissed. She’ll take it out on Lillian.”
He didn’t argue. “You could tell someone, you know. I could help.”
“I don’t want help. Not from anyone.” My own voice sounded mean, not like me. “I just want it to stop.”
There was a pause while I stared at the cracked ceiling, counting the web of pipes and the water stains spreading like bruises. I wondered if it would be easier if I just disappeared. Would my mother notice? Would Lillian feel relief?
He squeezed my hand, thumb circling the bone. “You ever want to talk about it, you can.”
“I don’t want to talk,” I said, and then, “Maybe I just want to forget.”
Dante nodded, a small, sad smile on his lips. “I could distract you. We could watch something? Or I can blast music until you can’t hear yourself think.”
He was trying. His hands were gentle, and his voice was soft, and for a moment I hated him for being kind when the world was so ugly.
But I found myself leaning into his shoulder, just enough to feel the warmth of him through the fleece. He didn’t say anything, just let me rest there.
“It’s okay. All I want is to feel safe for once in my life.”
My head drooped against Dante’s shoulder, the wool of his fleece scratchy but solid. The panic receded at the edge, like a dog that might bite again at any moment, biding its time.
There was a comfort in Dante’s silence, in how he didn’t press for explanations or try to fix me. He just waited, breathing slow and steady, tethering me to the here and now.
The Sprite can went warm and sticky in my hand, but I cradled it anyway, needing the small chill, the sugar burn.
I tracked the ticking of a basement clock, the way the second hand jerked its way around. The only other sound was the rattle of pipes as the furnace kicked on, and the hum of the fridge, always hungry for more.
We didn’t move for a long time. I think we both knew if we did,the moment would shatter and everything I was holding back would flood the room.
So, we sat, hunched together on the battered couch, while the clock’s juddering heartbeat measured out the infinite, empty seconds.
Eventually Dante reached for the remote, turning on the old TV. The static flickered across our faces, throwing us into silhouette. He didn’t bother with the volume. It was only there to fill the air, to say: here is something harmless, something not meant to wound.
His hand was still on mine, and that felt stranger than anything. I didn’t know what to do with it.
I wanted to squeeze back, to prove I was still capable of caring about another person, that my insides weren’t all burnt resin and rot.
But my fingers wouldn’t move. I just sat rigid, letting a strange numbness creep up my arm, into my chest, until I couldn’t tell if I was breathing or not.
I must have drifted. The basement light was off, the TV’s blue glow replaced by a dark silence.
My eyes snapped open and for a disorienting moment, I didn’t know where I was. The air was cold, but the weight behind me was warm and solid, a body curved along the length of mine.
Dante’s arm bracketed my ribs, his hand splayed gently, not possessive but anchoring, the way you might keep a page from blowing away in the wind.
