“What do you need, Rosie? What can I do?” His voice is barely a whisper. Gentle. Kind.
I find enough strength to slowly remove my hands from my face. When I do, I’m met with Locke’s soft green eyes and a careful expression. More tears are at my waterline, threatening to spill over.
“I don’t know.” I answer honestly.
I don’t know how to respond to Locke pressing comforting circles into my shoulders, and Ghost nudging his head against my ankle.
The only thing I can think to do—the only thing that feels right in this moment—is to cry. I fall into my emotions for once, because being around Locke makes me feel comfortable and safeenough to do that. Eyelids pressed impossibly tight as I wail over being treated badly by the boys in my cohort, but being treated so well by the man I have at home.
“Rosie, please.” His right hand slowly moves up my neck. He pauses his movements, almost like he’s doubting himself, before threading his fingers into my hair. The silver of his watch presses into my heated skin. “What’s wrong? Tell me I can do something to fix it.”
How do I explain there’s too much for even me to understand?
I don’t know where to start or where it ends, but having Locke look at me so tenderly produces a smile. It’s enough for his own shoulders to loosen and for my crying to calm.
“It’s a lot—too much. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not too much. Don’t apologize.”
I hold a breath while my chest begins to move at a regular cadence. His hand on my nape tightens, just enough to remind me he’s there.
“If you want to share, then I want to listen. If there’s anything I can do to make it better, tell me, please. I want to help.”
Ghost nudges at my ankle again and meows. Almost like he knows what Locke is saying and is acting as his sidekick.
My grin grows just a tad larger. Locke makes everything feel more manageable. Less like something I have to hide and more like something I can share, to help lift the emotional weight of it.
With the corners of my lips upturned, I nod towards the dinner he kindly put out for us. My heart clenches when I see it set up so neatly, and the wave of warmth almost causes another round of tears to fall.
After Locke places my backpack onto the couch and carefully pulls my chair out, he settles across the dining room table, green eyes patient and waiting.
They stay that way through the first ten minutes, while I shovel forkfuls of pasta into my mouth. Through the bites of food I thank him for making me a plate and tell him it’s good. A small smile plays on his own face when I say it.
I want to focus on the lighthearted mood floating around the table, almost in reach, but I’m fighting with myself internally.
I have more flaws than I’d like to admit. Too many to count—although I’m sure there’s someone dying to keep track. Waiting to recite them for anyone who will listen.
The flaw that gets me into the most trouble? The trust I put into people. Mostly men, if we go off track records. I’ve put my faith in them wholeheartedly, telling myself each guy is different than the handful that came before him. They never are.
Or were.
Half of my brain tells me Locke is different. He wouldn’t meticulously watch over me eating the dinner he made if he didn’t care. Through our late-night movie marathons and domestic activities, there must be a layer to me he’s gotten to know and appreciate. He has to be different than the boys who precede him.
This smarter, optimistic half of my brain swears it’s okay to tell my roommate all the details of how horrible this program has been. I’ve skimmed the surface with some issues I’ve had, and he’s responded well to those. That won’t change now. He’ll listen.
He said he wants to listen.
There’s only a few bites of pasta left on my plate when I take a deep breath and set my fork down.
“Thank you again for dinner.”
“This is nothing.” He waves his hand, silver watch reflecting the ceiling light. The phantom memory of its cold metal against my skin is too vivid. I dig my nails into my thigh. “You give me food all the time. I should be cooking for you more.”
I almost moan. He’s too nice not to trust.
“About the…” I gulp. “Crying. I can explain.” I don’t know why I pause, expecting him to say something. He doesn’t. Just places his own silverware down onto his plate, crosses his fingers and nods.
“It’s a lot to explain. I guess the short version is, I’m really emotional. I mean—I can get really emotional. I have a lot of emotions.” Embarrassment being one of them. Intense waves of humiliation crash into my conscious as I struggle to speak, but I press on. “Obviously, that’s a really bad thing.”
