Page 79 of This I Know
Wait. What?
I furrow my brows. That wasn’t the response I expected after telling a guyYes, you can kiss me.Did he just insult me?
“What do you mean?” I say.
He drops his hands. He isn’t touching me anymore.Please, touch me again.
“I can’t, Avery. I can’t kiss you.”
I take a step back. And I just risked a disastrous fall to do it; my porch isn’t big enough to support those kind of moves, and it could have ended in a fall. But I don’t care, because all that matters is that I’m still here, standing on my one-and-a-half feet, feeling a stinging sensation in my eyes. “Why?” I ask.
He ruffles his hair. “I don’t expect you to understand, and I get it if you hate me now. But I just can’t.”
Ok, Avery. Don’t overreact. The guy hasn’t shown any signs of crazy up to this point – I’m sure he has a perfectly reasonably explanation for what he’s saying. Some mysterious reason that he probably won’t share with me now. Because doesn’t it always turn out that way? Two people with something unspoken between them? When it comes to my relationships, it sure does.
Despite that, I need to keep my cool. That’s all.
He’s a good guy. He wouldn’t hurt me. He’s not Cole. He’s not my attacker. He’s totally, wonderfully and completely different.
Looking at him now, the whole of him, I see I’m right. He’s still standing there, his powerful hands at his sides, watching me with concern. That’s one thing that gets me about him: he’s always watching me, concerned, making sure I’m okay. And there’s a gentleness about him that goes against his strong, muscular appearance. Why? What is it about me?
“Okay,” I say calmly.
I hope he’s proud of how mature I’m being right now, because it’s sure taking a lot of effort. It’s taking everything inside of me to not pull out a defensive attitude in response to his rejection. It’s what Cole and I would have done.
“Okay, Ethan,” I say again. I tuck the long sleeves of my shirt over my hands. I cross them in front of me. My body, which was so warm from his flesh just moments ago, is now chilly. I do my best to give him a weak smile and say, “I’ll see you tomorrow at school.”
He returns my pained smile. “Definitely.”
And so, with nothing left to do, I approach my door and slide the key inside. As I turn it open, something not-so-deep within me hopes he’ll change his mind. That he’ll suddenly touch my shoulder –right now –and pull me back around. With him still standing behind me, I close my eyes and I will it to happen. I want to feel his fingers against my skin again. I don’t care where they touch, but as close to my face or mouth or neck again as possible would be great. That’s all I want. That’s all I know; I want him, in the simplest, most innocent and loving way possible. I don’t want any more than that because I don’t need more than that. Just his touch was enough.
What he just gave me for those precious few moments was enough.
The door pops open. Damn. I’d been hoping that by some miracle that wouldn’t happen.
The porch light clicks back off, the only sound in all this silence around us.
And when the door snaps closed behind me, I slide to the floor. I hear his steps leave my house in that steady thump I’ve already come to know. I rest my head on my crossed arms.
This healing thing is hard.
“Avery.”
My head shoots up at the sound of my mom’s voice. She’s there, at the base of the stairs, blocking the way she probably thought I would have tried to take immediately after coming inside.
“Mom,” I say. I stand and brace myself. I’m ready for the onslaught.
She relaxes her shoulders and starts to turn around. Before I can say another word, she says, “Lock the door,” and heads up the stairs, lifting the bottom of her old-fashioned nightdress as she goes.
“Don’t forget you have physical therapy on Wednesday.”
I haven’t gotten over how weird she’s been acting. Maybe she didn’t see anything. Maybe she even forgot. It’s possible.
For once, my mom’s actually not rushing around to get something done or leave for somewhere more important than here. It’s a miracle. She’s actually home, with me, relaxing in the living room with a novel in her hand and a soap opera blaring in the background. This is strange. I don’t think I’ve seen her so laid back like this since before my attack.
Now that she mentions it, Ididforget about physical therapy. I sigh to make sure she knows I’m just about done with all this.
“How many more sessions?” I ask, taking a swig of orange juice.
