Page 55 of Skeletons in the Closet

Diem seemed drenched in guilt over the reactive response he had back at Beth’s. He couldn’t look at me, was incapable of sitting still, and had decimated his fingernails by incessantly biting them. In the past few hours, he could barely put two words together, which was typical but seemed far worse since leaving Beth’s. I didn’t press the issue.

He was wound tighter than a spring, and I wanted him to know I wasn’t afraid. Yes, I’d been momentarily paralyzed when his boulder-sized fist had swung toward my face, but he’d caught himself in time.

“Don’t freak out. I’m going to touch you,” I warned.

“You’re what?” Diem tensed and flashed his attention from the motel door to me with questions in his eyes.

I displayed my hand before bringing it closer and removing his fedora. It frustrated me how it shadowed his face and prevented me from seeing him properly.

“Eyes forward, soldier. Trust me.”

Diem glared. I glared back with mock intensity. When I didn’t explain myself, he returned his gaze to the motel, but his muscles were so taut they could have sung.

Carefully, cautiously, giving him time to process, I brought my hand to his head and massaged my fingers over his scalp, scraping my nails gently over the surface. His shorn hair was incredibly soft. Much softer than it looked.

“My mother used to do this to me when I was little,” I explained. “It helped calm me down when I was upset. My father would argue she was too soft with me and I shouldn’t be coddled, but she never listened and did it anyway.”

At first, Diem remained tense.

“Breathe, Guns. We’re okay.”

He took a shaky inhale and let it out too fast.

“Again. Slower this time.”

I didn’t pull away. His throat bobbed, but he listened. In and out. Over and over. I continued to slowly and methodically offer a tender caress. It was like he didn’t know what to do with the contact, and it took him an exorbitant amount of time to relax.

But he finally did.

When his breathing evened out, I considered it a win.

When he pushed against my hand, encouraging more, I chuckled. “You have a big fucking head, Guns.”

He made a noise that was a cross between a laugh and a huff. “I know. My mother never failed to remind me she birthed me naturally and how my head was the biggest obstacle.”

“Considering your stubbornness, I’m not surprised you came out with a noggin this size.”

He closed his eyes for a minute while I worked. I dug my fingers deeper, applying more pressure.

After thirty minutes of massaging his scalp, my arm grew numb from being elevated, so I lowered it to my lap and fiddled with the brim of his fedora instead of giving it back.

“Feel better?”

“A bit.”

“Good.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

“Anytime.” The silence grew uncomfortable again, so I tried for conversation, expecting to fail. I’d found a tag on the inside of the hat. A name was printed on the label, but it was too faded to read. “What did you say your grandfather’s name was?”

“Boone.”

Boone. I saw it now. I traced the name with a finger. “How did he die?”

“Bad heart. He got eighty-five years out of it. Better than some people, I guess.” Diem’s voice was quiet and wistful. It was the first time it didn’t feel like pulling teeth to get words out of him.

“Were you close?”

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