Page 54 of Mayflower

“I didn’t know how to reply to that. So I didn’t. Not for a while. And maybe those days as I waited, thinking and thinking and thinking about how to make her feel better—those were the days when she needed my answer the most… But she didn’t have the strength to wait…”

I finally lift my head and look Maddy in the eyes. I never want to see tears in them, but I do, the droplets mixing with water, her eyes full of so much compassion.

“Maddy,” I whisper, but before I find the strength to say something else, she starts kissing my face, stroking me with her gentle hands that have an incredible power to sooth pain.

“I haven’t done a single thing to deserve you,” I whisper.

“You don’t need to deserve me. It’s just the way it is,” she says, smiling through tears. “Love doesn’t always have to be deserved. Sometimes, it just is. It’s not sold. It’s not bargained. It’s free for the taking. It’s a gift. Just let me be with you, please.”

This is the most vulnerable I’ve felt since I was seven and went into the first foster home and so desperately wanted my new foster parents to like me. I smiled so hard. My heart beat so fast. I wanted to cry because they looked at me with curiosity, and I thought, “This is it, my family,” and I already loved them for wanting to take me in. And in the end, they gave me up, just like many others afterward.

But this feeling—that someone wants you for themselves—grows roots fast, even if only for a short while. And I so want to be hers, capable of protecting her, not being saved.

Letting go is like turning into a rushing river. They can throw anything they want at you, but you carry on. They put up a dam, but you break through it, because you are strong enough.

I want to tell Maddy that I will take a hundred more stabs for her. That I will kneel to the enemy for her. That I will endure more abuse if that will keep her safe. Being by her side is a privilege.

I want to kiss her from dusk until dawn. And at dawn, I want to take her to the beach, go swimming, watch droplets of water sparkle on her smooth skin and kiss them off one by one. I want to see her smile at the sun. I want her to laugh with her mouth wide open like she used to. I want to watch her teach little dude how to surf. And I want to know that they are both mine.

I want to tell her all that, but you never tell a woman all the deep thoughts you have about her. A man is supposed to be a shield, and shielding one’s emotions is part of it. In truth, I want to live to see the day she can take that shield off with her gentle hands. When we are old and wrinkled and still hold hands, and we think of how our story began and laugh at the craziness of it all.

I want to live with her.

With her, I want to live.

With her, I constantly want.

You don’t heal wounds and build the future with anger and hate. You do that with love.

She once told me that, with a smile, waving it off as silly nonsense.

So, I swallow my pride. That shitty thing rarely did any good. No, not pride, it’s denial. Or doubt. Or fear. Or ego. As Henry Miller once said, the ego dies in its own glass cage, and I don’t want to be caged anymore. Not by the past, not by my ambitions or silly notions of superiority. Or whatever it is that kept me from telling the girl who holds my heart hostage and my demons at bay that she is the most beautiful human I've ever met.

“I love you, beautiful girl,” I whisper. “I love you.” I kiss her. “I love you.”

The more I say it, the easier it is to repeat.

And I kiss her cheeks, her eyes, her brows, her soft lips. And I make love to her in the shower, letting the water wash off the tears, anger, and hate.

18

MADDY

When we get out of the shower, I throw Raven’s shirt over my naked body while he puts on his boxers.

He is bruised all over, but the most prominent injury is the stab wound on the side of his abdomen.

“Hold still,” I order. “Let me take a look.”

I get down on my knees and inspect the wound.

“It was a lucky stab,” he says as I brush my fingers against the stitches, and he sucks in his taut stomach.

My guy looks like a gangster and smells like a cute baby from the fruity soap we used. Still on my knees, I brush my fingers over his other bruises, trying to disregard the fact that my face is in front of his boxers, his hardness swelling.

I glance at it, rise to my feet, then cup him gently. “Don’t get any ideas,” I murmur and give him a kiss on the lips. “You need to eat first.”

In the kitchen, I set the plate with the sandwich before him, then arrange cutup fruit in a small bowl.

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