Page 56 of Win You Over
It’s not there. And suddenly I’m twelve again and the monsters are surrounding me and I’m weak and alone and my dad is dead and no one can help me and….
The feel of Remington pulling my arm and latching our hands together has my thoughts stilling. I close my hand around his, squeezing tightly. The warmth and softness of his palm in mine, grounding me to the here and now.
I’m not back there,I remind myself.I’m safe. Remington is safe.
“Baby?” His free hand touches my shoulder lightly and when I don’t flinch or move away, he increases the pressure, rubbing his hand up and down my arm.
“Come,” he whispers in a gentle voice. He tugs, encouraging me to my feet and leads me to the bed, where he sits, his back to the headboard, and pulls me to straddle his lap.
I press my hands to his chest, the steady beat of his heart moving beneath my palm. He’s so real, not like the monsters from my nightmares.
Remington’s eyes meet mine, his hand toying with the hem of my t-shirt. I steady my breathing and nod and wordlessly, he lifts the fabric. When the fabric reaches my neck, I close my eyes and lift my hands, letting Remington strip me of my armour.
Closing my eyes, I breathe in, one, two, three times, counting each breath in my head, before starting over again. My eyes burn behind my lids and my throat works thickly to swallow. I don’t want to see myself or see his reaction, so I keep my eyes scrunched tightly.
The tiniest flutters, like the whisper of long grass, tickles over my stomach, working up towards my chest. He’s tracing my scars with feather light touches.
“Holden,” Remington says. “What happened to you?”
When I finally let my eyes drift open, it’s to see Remington’s gaze following the path of his fingers as he maps my damaged skin.
The wall is there again, holding back my words. Emotion clogging up my throat when I try.
With one hand on me, Remington reaches blindly towards the side table, fumbling around.
“Here,” he says, when he finds what he’s looking for, handing me a square note block of green paper and a blue marker.
My eyes sting. The only reason this paper is even here is because he is so considerate of me. Who does that for someone they hardly know? Despite the burning knowledge that I’m about to let Remington in on my secrets, the prevailing thought in my mind at this moment is,I hope he’s still this guy when we get home.
Remington’s fingers draw patterns over my skin as I begin to write out my story. His touch is delicate, skating over burn scars that have left me with little sensation where the scarring has thickened the skin, and then up towards my scarred nipple that is constantly numb, thanks to extensive nerve damage.
I hand him the first note, my writing a dark messy scrawl.
When I was twelve, my best friend betrayed me.
It took me months to heal from the physical effects of the attack. It took meyearsto heal from the betrayal. Knowing Lucas pretended to be my friend just so he and his gang could hurt me was harder to fathom than the brutality of what they did.
At twelve years old, in a new village, having lost my dad only two years before, I wanted someone to call my friend. I wanted it so badly I ignored all the warning signs. I ignored the looks that other kids gave Lucas when he hung out with me, but worst of all, I ignored the voice in my head that screamed,why would the most popular kid in school want to be your friend, loser?
I drop the pen to the bed, and turn my attention to Remington, studying the look on his face. The way he’s chewing his bottom lip, the furrow of his brow and the steady rise and fall of his chest. I look at him long and hard and I try to see if those red flags are there again. If this is yet another trap I’ve walked into.
I don’t see it. I don’t see an ounce of maliciousness in him and I hope, more than I have ever hoped before, that I am not wrong about him.
“Your friend did this to you?” he asks, his nostrils flaring.
I thought he was my friend. He made me believe he was.I write. Then I write down the sordid details of the attack and hand him each piece of paper, like a puzzle he can put together to get a clearer picture of me.
His breath catches and his eyes dart up to meet mine before he continues reading. Each green square falling to the bed next to him.
“Baby,” he says in a whisper. “Is this why you can’t talk around some people?”
I shake my head.
The day we learned about my dad’s suicide was the first day I lost my voice.
I hand him the paper, then continue on another square.
That day in the forest, those kids said they would stop if I begged. They held my wrists down and told me to beg, but I couldn’t. I wanted to.
