Page 65 of Rock Me

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Noémie

I stare at the wide expanse of his back, covered in a tight black T-shirt, like a shield. His shoulders hunched, his head bent, his arm folded, as he clutches at his own chest with his wounded hand. Every part of him shying away from me.

If you cracked open my chest at this moment, you would see my heart being fed through a shredder.

The pain that is etched all over his face is so raw and deep, it takes my breath away. I can't even imagine what he is suffering right now. Physically, mentally.

Yes, you do. My mind tries to tell me. But I know it's wrong. What I'm going through is nothing like this. Yes, I am confused, and frustrated and worried.

But I don't have this soul deep ache that he seems to be going through. And I don't even think I really understand it.

But I can see it in his eyes.

And I know that it's real for him.

And that makes it real for me.

I pivot on my heel and walk toward the table where Brian is sitting. He is watching Jez, but not saying anything. I wonder how many times a day he sees this.

What a job to have.

I walk over to the ball on the floor and pick it up and walk back over, to stand in front of Jez.

I reach up and place my hand under his chin, lifting his face up.

His eyes are shining. Wet.

And he looks surprised to see me.

I look down at the hand curled up against his chest. Pulling it away from his body, I slide the ball into it.

And I tell him what he knows but needs to hear again, "I am not going anywhere. You asked me here. And I came. And I’m staying. So, you can yell at me if you think that’s going to make you feel better. Personally, I think you’re going to feel worse about it later, because that’s just the kind of good guy that you are. But if you need to yell I can take it. What I can’t take is seeing you give up.” I take a breath, and continue, “You can do this. It's not going to be easy. It's not meant to be. I know you want to be healed and back to normal and to get the hell out of here. I get it. And I don't know what happened to you, but I know this - your bones don't fucking care what you want. You have to tell them. You have to make them. You can do this."

There’s a sharp intake of breath and the slightest shake of his head.

"Stop. We're not going to say or THINK the word 'no' for the next two minutes, okay? Just two minutes. Then you can complain and go back to being a whiny baby all you want. But just give me two minutes. Please. I’ll beg you if I have to."

His head changes from a shake to a nod.

"Now, squeeze your hand. Like you've done a million times before."

I don't look down. He lets me hold his gaze, and I can see the effort in his eyes. They almost glaze over with pain.

"N-..."

"Two minutes, Jez,” I remind him, as firmly but kindly as I can.

He holds his breath and I can see his fingers twitch in the corner of my eyes, but I won't look away.

"Fuck!" he says, and I can see the hope fading in his pupils, the light shrinking into a darkened abyss.

I push the ball away from his hand and it bounces on the floor. I replace it with my hand, sliding my fingers against his palm.

"Squeeze my hand, Jez."

There's a flicker of... something. Hope. Because hope remain when all reason is gone. It’s hope in his gaze and I see him steeling himself. In that moment, I know him. Know what motivates him, what moves him. Sometimes, someone needs something other than himself to care about.