She bit her lip, pulling the corner of it in. "Can I see?" she said after a few seconds. "Your arms."
He wasn’t quite sure if her wanting to see his arms made him feel cared for, or if it just made him feel like she thought he was a liar. No one had been interested in the cuts on his arms before. No one, but nosy doctors who didn't understand, and all they could do was say, stop doing it. He pushed his sleeve up to his elbow, revealing his arm to her. It was cut and scarred and marked from years of self-abuse, but nothing fresh.
He did the same with his other arm and Rosie reached for him, grabbing his wrist and running a delicate finger over the silver scars. "I’m sorry," she said.
"It's okay. I didn't cut. I promise."
She held his arm in both of her hands and turned it over so that the soft flesh underneath faced her. Even that held scars of nights left alone with his brain, although not as many; it bled like a bastard when he cut there, and that usually needed hospital attention. Rosie brought her mouth down to his skin and kissed his scars. "I never want you to cut your skin again." She raised her eyes to his. "I never want you to feel that kind of pain."
He slid his arm from her hands, stopping to wrap his fingers around hers and then he brought them to his lips. "I'm trying," he said, kissing her knuckles. He held on tightly, staring at her. His mind saw the picture and tried to whisper lies to him. His memory trying to match up the young girl in the photo with the woman standing in front of him. She had never mentioned a baby. Not once.
His phone buzzed again in his pocket and he knew without looking who it would be. He gave Rosie's hand one last squeeze and then excused himself to answer it.