Page 39 of The Cruelty of Thorns

“It’s nothing bad. I just, well, I wanted to talk to you. Actually, I wanted you to talk to me. I felt like I dominated the conversation last night without giving you a chance to speak.”

I exhaled and shrugged. “That’s okay. I’m not the best at conversation.”

“You can be with me. I want to get to know you.”

“Why?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He grinned at me and took a bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully before replying. “You’re not like other girls. I feel like there’s hidden layers to you and I want to discover them.”

“Maybe you won’t like what you find,” I replied.

“I doubt that. You fascinate me.”

I looked down, suddenly feeling shy, and picked at my food. Ron reached across the table and closed his hand over mine.

“Hey, you don’t have to hide from me. I would never hurt you.”

If only it was that simple, I thought. “I believe you wouldn’t mean to, but things happen.”

“What happened to you?”

My eyes darted around, looking for an escape. Part of me wanted to run away as fast as I could, but maybe it was time I stopped running. He said he wanted to know me; maybe it was time to let someone in.

When I spoke, my voice felt raw with emotion. “I lost someone special to me.”

“You said that last night. Who was it?”

“He…was a friend. A good friend. We had…plans. For the future.”

“What happened?”

I took a deep breath and settled myself. I could do this. It was time. The therapist back in high school had told me the only way to get past trauma was to talk about it, but I had never been able to do that. Instead I closed it off, pushing the pain deep inside and covering it up with denial.

I blinked away the tears pooling in my eyes and thought about running away again. My patented escape to the restroom. Then I looked up and met his eyes. There was no judgment there, only concern, and I decided if I was ever going to move forward in life I was going to have to let go of the past.

When I spoke, my voice was barely a whisper, as though to speak it aloud would somehow desecrate the memory. “He was a musician. An artist. We were sixteen and I guess you could say we were in love. At least we thought we were. We never got the chance to explore that, though because he…” I swallowed. “Killed himself.”

Ron’s grip on my hand tightened, his eyes holding mine. “I’m so sorry, Myra. I can’t even imagine how that must’ve affected you.”

His kindness made me want to cry more, but I swiped at the tears and nodded my thanks.

“Is that why you gave up on your art?”

“Yes. It was just…”

“It reminded you of him,” he finished.

“Yes,” I agreed, biting my lip.

“I wish I could hug you right now. No one should have to go through that alone.”

“Thank you.” I realized it sounded lame, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”

“Then thank you. I know the pain will never completely disappear, but having someone to talk to can be a big help. I’d like to be that someone.”

“You sound like you know something about that.”

He swallowed, his own eyes clouding. “I had a little sister. She was five when she was diagnosed with leukemia. She didn’t make it to her sixth birthday.”

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