Page 86 of Let the Light Shine Through

That’s what those scars are. Gia gets biopsies taken because she’s worried she’ll get skin cancer, just like her mom. And apparently her grandmother. But why didn’t she just say that? Why couldn’t she tell me? I’d…

I don’t know.

“You all right, man? You’re wobbling.”

I look down, freezing my body in place. I hadn’t even noticed. “Uh, yeah,” I mumble before walking away, toward Gia, who’s bent down, checking her tire pressure.

Everything starts to fall into place. The long-sleeve shirts, pants, and hats, even when it’s triple digits. The time I found her in the shade when every other person would’ve been soaking up the sun like a sponge in the Atlantic. Her words that day. “The sun can kill you.” Everything. All of it. Even the day I first met her.

“Are you planning on dying then?”

“Not today.”

“You’re scared,” I blurt as soon as I’m standing above her.

She squints up at me, tugging on something under the four-wheeler’s muddy body. Her head dips like she knew this was coming.

“Junior year, I had just come back after my mom died, and one day at lunch, I downed a whole carton of milk too fast and it sprayed out my nose like a broken fucking spigot. I’m telling you, nobody walked away dry that day. Anyway, this group of girls thought I was possessed, so they started filling their water bottles with water they got from the bathroom and dousing me with it in the hallways between classes. They would chant these fake prayers and everything.” Sitting back on her heels to dust her hands, she says, “And I’m scared I’ll never be able to get the taste out of my mouth.”

What? That…took an unexpected turn.

Or two.

“You mean the water?”

After a pause, where I think she’s going to take it all back, she says seriously, “It was public restroom water, Roz. You don’t know what’s in that shit.” She even pretends to shudder.

Is she serious right now?

“What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?”

I shake the entire—hopefully fictional—story away, telling her, “I’m talking about those scars on your back, Gia. And on your wrist.” She stops what she’s doing, staring blankly in front of her. That’s right, baby. I caught on. “Why do you wear clothes that cover almost every inch of your skin? Even on the hottest summer days? Why do you lurk outside funerals like you’re doing research for your own?” I crouch down beside her, willing her to look at me while whispering, “Why won’t you admit you have feelings for me?”

After a quick glance around to see if people are listening, she brings her eyes to mine and, fuck me, I shouldn’t have done it like this. I shouldn’t have cornered her because now she’s pacing like a wild animal, looking for a way out, any way out. Unfortunately, the only way out is through me because I’m not letting this go. Not until she’s honest with me.

“What’s your deal with wanting me to like you so bad? I used to like thongs once upon a time,” she shrugs, “but you don’t see me parading around in one now, do you?” She stands suddenly, taking every bit of my calm with her.

I mimic her stance, crossing my arms over my chest and meeting her glare with my own. “You’re scared to like me. You’re scared to be with me.”

“There he is. Mr. Roswell Andrews-Smith, the narcissistic asshole looking for a good fuck.”

My face flinches before I can stop it.

“Take sex off the table—”

She groans dramatically. “But table sex is so good when it’s done right.” I try to ignore her, but she keeps going. “You have to find someone tall enough but not too tall.”

“Gia.”

“The table can’t be too tall either though.”

“Gia, stop,” I try again. Softer, I say, “You’re scared of dying.”

“And you’re scared of living.” She scoffs.

“Talk to me already. You can push me all you want, but I’m not budging this time. Fucking talk to me.”