Page 81 of Yes No Maybe

She rocks faster, energy pulsing. “He never said a thing. I still don’t really know why he did it. Because he could, I guess. And he was angry.”

“Tell me what he did.”

“He snatched the pot from my hand. The water splashed and burned my fingers. I screamed, so he knocked me to the floor and poured it on my face.”

She holds her left hand high on her face, covering her eye, and the lines of her injuries match—burned hand and lower cheek—where she tried shielding herself.

“He laughed when he did it. Laughed at my agony. I still hear it sometimes.”

Our pleasant cocoon feels pressurized now, full of tension that builds in our silence.

She fills it quickly, like she can’t help it. “I remember everything—what he wore, the grime under his fingernails, the bitterness of his breath. I remember wanting to die. But then it stopped hurting. He melted my nerves. I still don’t have feeling in some parts. When the water ran out and my screaming slowed, he pressed the bottom of the hot pot to my face and neck like he wanted to crush me with it. Him on top of me… pressing… my skin sizzling… him laughing… my jaw cracking…”

Her fingers press into her marks, massaging the base of her neck, like she’s experiencing phantom pain just by retelling it. I want to stop her—she shouldn’t have to relive her horror to keep a promise to me. And I never expected how much it would hurt to hear it.

But I see she wants to get it out, like it’s a stone trapped inside her, weighing her down. She’s not even crying, as if she reached her tear quota for this years ago and can’t produce them anymore. Or perhaps, shielded from the sun and surrounded by honeysuckle in our safe place, she doesn’t need tears.

“And, um…” Her eyes lock on her feet, and her voice cracks. “I blacked out. He didn’t like that. The screaming and fighting seemed important to him, so he slapped me awake again and again. That part—hardly anyone knows that part.”

Her voice trails off. I want to touch her, hold her, but that isn’t what she needs. Not that Ireallyknow what she needs. There are no words, no magical touches, no combinations of sympathy or anger that could even put a dent in the pain she’s suffered. And still suffers.

She twists toward me and looks surprised to find me crying. It shocks me, too. Soft streams trickle down my cheeks and merge into my stubble like I can’t physically contain the pain of what she’s telling me.

That she went through this…

That someone did that to her…

I have so much rage for her agony and love for the woman she is that my quaking emotions need some release, and tears are all I can do.

I haven’t cried since Devin, and never like this. It strikes me how alike they are—both unfairly poisoned with what they can’t change or ignore.

And Rowan is reminded of it every time she looks in the mirror.

She releases a trapped breath and, twisting in my direction, brings her hands to my face. Her warmth softens me, like her touch naturally releases my pain for her. My cheek presses into her hand as she wipes my tears with her fingertips. I’ve never felt more emotionally connected to anyone before, not even Devin. The world could go to shit around us, disintegrate into ash, fall into the seas, implode or explode, and I wouldn’t care because everything I need is here. With her.

A gentle smile perks on her lips. “A man who cries—I thought that was a myth.”

“You’ve never seen a man cry before?”

“Haven’t been around many. I saw Grandpa Ro get teary once—never cry. For years, the people I loved most shielded me from their pain like it would only add to my own. Even Mom stopped crying in front of me, afraid it would hurt me more to see it.”

“Does it?”

“No. Strangely, it makes me feel better. I wish we’d been friends then.”

I flash her a funny look.

She shrugs. “It’s a weird thing to say, I guess. We were at Fort Hood. I had friends, but none were close, and it was an awful situation anyway. People keep their distance when they don’t know how to comfort someone. I spent weeks in the hospital—the worst pain came when I was healing.”

“I couldn’t have helped that,” I say weakly.

“No. But you never would’ve let me suffer alone—that’s who you are. It would’ve been a relief—someone not being skittish around me. Someone telling me jokes or stories or pulling out a book to read. Someone to share my anger, fear, or whatever else—to feel it with me. No holding back.”

“They’ve been talking to you about Devin.”

“Yes, they gush about you two. I’m sure he was grateful to have you at his side. I would’ve been.”

“He would’ve loved you, you know.” My head droops and tears spill onto my pant leg. “I still see him sometimes, talk to him.”

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