Page 91 of Accidental Husband
From here, it's hard to see the needle, but I know it's there. And, God, it's perfect.
"You're obsessed," I say.
"I'm obsessed?" His fingers brush my quads. Then higher. Higher—
I step backward, reflexively.
His expression gets dead serious. His eyes fix on me. They study me, looking for cracks.
No, it's not adversarial. He's concerned. He's caring. He's really fucking good at reading me.
I press my lips into a smile. "Not here."
He nods, accepting my answer. Mostly. His brow stays furrowed. "Come on." He wraps his arm around my waist. "Let's get to the air-conditioning."
"Yes." It is a million degrees out here, but that's not why I'm flushed.
I need to tell him.
Soon.
Really soon.
I try to find the words, but they're so bare, so honest. I can't strip myself naked. Not yet.
Griffin, I still remember that night in eleventh grade. You fell asleep in my bed. When I came back from the shower, I changed into my tank top, and my hoodie, fell asleep next to you. But I got too hot. Tossed the sweater aside.
When you woke up, you saw the scars.
You were scared. And angry. Your eyes filled with something I'd never seen before. Disappointment.
That felt worse than anything. It hurt more than anything.
I never told you, but it drove me right back to my razor.
It wasn't about you. It wasn't about your need to know my secrets or my ability to trust you. I did trust you. I still do.
That's not why I keep this to myself. It's about me, Griff. It's mine.
It's hard to explain, the way shame grips my core. I don't have a good reason for cutting. It's not like I'm suffering from an abusive family or even one that expects perfection. My parents love me. You love me. You can't say it, but I know you do.
It's just, my head is a mess. And sometimes it's so overwhelming. I feel like I'm going to burst. And that's the only way I can fix it.
I guess I should have told you that. But you seemed so scared, so wounded, so judgmental. I couldn't take that.
I know you figured it out. Realized it wasn't about you. Apologized.
That night when you came to me, arms open, design in hand, and you whispered, "I'm sorry, Jules. I'm such a fucking idiot. Forgive me?" And you promised you'd always be there. It was perfect.
Until you asked me to promise I'd never cut again.
I tried, I did. But I couldn't.
It's still the only thing that helps calm the storm inside me.
God, that sounds lame. And cliché. It's just, I don't have a good explanation. I do it because it's the only thing that helps.
Every time I pick up a blade or catch a glimpse of a scar, I think about that promise.
