Redemptive
Page 29
I watched him, fascinated, while I sat on the bathroom counter.
“What?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, his eyes back on mine.
I reached out and ran the back of my fingers across his jaw, trying hard not to frown. “You look so young,” I told him, and it wasn’t a lie. I’d never seen him clean-shaven before. There was always a few days’ growth, and when he did shave, it was a quick run with an electric razor. But now, his eyes seemed clearer, his jaw more defined. He looked like a kid—a kid who didn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders and wasn’t responsible for someone’s life. My life. I tried to smile though I’m not sure if it showed. “You look so handsome.”
“Yeah?” he asked, looking away and concentrating on the task at hand. “Maybe I’ll shave more often.”
“You don’t have to.”
“If you like it, I will.”
Somehow, with those simple words, he managed to turn my frown into a genuine smile. I kept watching him while he finished shaving, my gaze skimming his bare chest, down to the dips of his abs and paused for a moment at the towel wrapped around his waist. I hesitated, my cheeks growing warm, before looking further down at the bulge. I chewed my lip, my eyes focused on the outline until he cleared his throat.
He smirked. “You okay?”
I nodded and looked away. “So this thing tonight…” I said, hoping to change the subject. For months (I assume) we’d been sleeping in the same bed, and the most we’d done is kiss and the occasional grope. I think he felt the pressure of going further more than I did.
He washed his razor under the running tap and shook it out a couple times before trashing it. “What about it?” he asked, wiping his face with a towel. He stood in front of me, close enough that I could smell him, but far enough that he wasn’t touching me.
“What is it again?”
He shrugged lazily. “It’s a preppy party for some rich kid who got into some fancy college. I guess his parents are throwing some kind of show-off party, and while the parents mingle and compare notes on how great their kids are, the kids gather and get fucked up on whatever I supply them,” he said simply.
“So why do you have to go? And why are you shaving for it?”
“Because I have to fit in, I guess. And none of the others can get away with it.” He took my hand, and guided me down from the counter, then led me to my room.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and continued to watch him dress—he pulled on boxers under the towel, towel off, pants, followed by a shirt. As usual. He dressed more formally, though, wearing dress pants and a dress shirt to go with his new clean look. “Tie or no tie?” he asked, lifting one in his hand.
The momentary act of normalcy had my heart skipping a beat, and I almost let myself forget who he was, who I was, and who we were together. “I don’t know,” I said, my gaze dropping when my voice cracked, giving away my vulnerability. “You look nice either way.”
I felt him approaching before I saw his bare feet stop a few inches in front of mine. “What’s up? You okay?” He placed his hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a temperature.”
“I’m fine,” I said, moving away from his touch.
Nate’s sigh was almost deafening compared to the silence I’d been so accustomed to. He slumped down next to me, his arm brushing mine. “What’s going on, Bailey?”
“Nothing,” I lied. It was pathetic. I was pathetic. “It’s dumb.”
“So tell me anyway,” he said, his arm around my waist, pulling me into him.
I cleared my throat, trying to focus on the safety of his touch. “Will there be girls at this party?”
He chuckled, and just like that, a rage built somewhere in the pit of my stomach. I turned to him and pushed on his shoulders until he was flat on his back. His yelp of surprise did nothing to stop me from climbing on top of him, straddling his waist and thumping my fists on his chest, which only made him laugh harder.
I narrowed my eyes, my lips pursed. “It’s not funny,” I said, my fist raised.
He grabbed my wrist as it came down on him, his laughter dying in the air. “Bailey,” he said, his tone stern.
I sat up a little and raised my chin. “What?”
His eyes seemed to soften as he looked up at me, slowly releasing his hold on my wrist. One of his hands landed on my thigh, the other reaching up and moving the hair away from my eyes. “There will be girls there,” he said, his voice soft and his eyes on mine. “But it doesn’t matter because none of them are you.”
*
His words should’ve been comforting. They weren’t. All I could think about was that he was out there, looking the way he did, and I was in here, feeling the way I did.
I went to the bathroom, like I’d done so many times before, sat on the floor and faced the corner of the room. The tiles (which I’m sure were once blue, now gray) were small, penny-sized hexagons, perfect for counting. And count them I did. Daily. For hours. Until my eyes felt like they were about to bleed or my stomach rumbled, and I’d take a break, eat, stare at a different wall, and come back to it. The most I’d counted was 2,684. The least, 2,463. But I’d never counted the same number twice, which I guess is good because it kept me going back for more. Crazy? Maybe. But to me—it was the only thing that kept me sane.
Tiny had been around more at night helping to make “my place” more livable. More comfortable. It didn’t really help, but I smiled. I pretended to care, and I did it for Nate because I could see the way he looked at me, hopeful, as if what he was doing was helping me heal, saving me. So I put up the front, and I smiled and nodded and picked out a bed I didn’t care about to go with the rug I didn’t care about and the lamps to match both the things I didn’t fucking care about.
I huffed out a frustrated breath when I realized I’d lost count and started again.
Three times I started over before I gave in to the inevitable and accepted defeat. My mind was racing, filled with so many thoughts I couldn’t focus on one, let alone thousands of numbers.
When Nate had said that he didn’t know how long he’d be gone for, I almost told him that it didn’t matter. It’s not like I could tell if he’d been gone an hour or five. I didn’t say anything, though. I just nodded, told him to be safe, allowed him to kiss me on the forehead and then watched him climb the steps like I’d done too many times to count.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and grabbed his discarded shirt from the bathroom floor before climbing into bed with it. Pathetic, I know, but I couldn’t deny that I missed him. Every second he was gone felt like an eternity.
Tear after tear fell from my eyes.
Sob after sob fell silent from my lips.
Call it love. Call it longing. Call it plain old loneliness.
I may not know what it was—these deep dark feelings I had to keep secret—the only thing I knew was that I feared every single one of them.
Even love.
25
Bailey
I don’t know how I ended up back on the bathroom floor, curled in a ball, gripping Nate’s T-shirt like my life depended on it. His breath was warm against my ear, hand shaking my shoulder as he whispered my name over and over, an urgent lilt in his tone that had my eyes snapping open and my body upright the second I came to. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, hand to his heart as he sat back on his heels.
“What?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, his eyes back on mine.
I reached out and ran the back of my fingers across his jaw, trying hard not to frown. “You look so young,” I told him, and it wasn’t a lie. I’d never seen him clean-shaven before. There was always a few days’ growth, and when he did shave, it was a quick run with an electric razor. But now, his eyes seemed clearer, his jaw more defined. He looked like a kid—a kid who didn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders and wasn’t responsible for someone’s life. My life. I tried to smile though I’m not sure if it showed. “You look so handsome.”
“Yeah?” he asked, looking away and concentrating on the task at hand. “Maybe I’ll shave more often.”
“You don’t have to.”
“If you like it, I will.”
Somehow, with those simple words, he managed to turn my frown into a genuine smile. I kept watching him while he finished shaving, my gaze skimming his bare chest, down to the dips of his abs and paused for a moment at the towel wrapped around his waist. I hesitated, my cheeks growing warm, before looking further down at the bulge. I chewed my lip, my eyes focused on the outline until he cleared his throat.
He smirked. “You okay?”
I nodded and looked away. “So this thing tonight…” I said, hoping to change the subject. For months (I assume) we’d been sleeping in the same bed, and the most we’d done is kiss and the occasional grope. I think he felt the pressure of going further more than I did.
He washed his razor under the running tap and shook it out a couple times before trashing it. “What about it?” he asked, wiping his face with a towel. He stood in front of me, close enough that I could smell him, but far enough that he wasn’t touching me.
“What is it again?”
He shrugged lazily. “It’s a preppy party for some rich kid who got into some fancy college. I guess his parents are throwing some kind of show-off party, and while the parents mingle and compare notes on how great their kids are, the kids gather and get fucked up on whatever I supply them,” he said simply.
“So why do you have to go? And why are you shaving for it?”
“Because I have to fit in, I guess. And none of the others can get away with it.” He took my hand, and guided me down from the counter, then led me to my room.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and continued to watch him dress—he pulled on boxers under the towel, towel off, pants, followed by a shirt. As usual. He dressed more formally, though, wearing dress pants and a dress shirt to go with his new clean look. “Tie or no tie?” he asked, lifting one in his hand.
The momentary act of normalcy had my heart skipping a beat, and I almost let myself forget who he was, who I was, and who we were together. “I don’t know,” I said, my gaze dropping when my voice cracked, giving away my vulnerability. “You look nice either way.”
I felt him approaching before I saw his bare feet stop a few inches in front of mine. “What’s up? You okay?” He placed his hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a temperature.”
“I’m fine,” I said, moving away from his touch.
Nate’s sigh was almost deafening compared to the silence I’d been so accustomed to. He slumped down next to me, his arm brushing mine. “What’s going on, Bailey?”
“Nothing,” I lied. It was pathetic. I was pathetic. “It’s dumb.”
“So tell me anyway,” he said, his arm around my waist, pulling me into him.
I cleared my throat, trying to focus on the safety of his touch. “Will there be girls at this party?”
He chuckled, and just like that, a rage built somewhere in the pit of my stomach. I turned to him and pushed on his shoulders until he was flat on his back. His yelp of surprise did nothing to stop me from climbing on top of him, straddling his waist and thumping my fists on his chest, which only made him laugh harder.
I narrowed my eyes, my lips pursed. “It’s not funny,” I said, my fist raised.
He grabbed my wrist as it came down on him, his laughter dying in the air. “Bailey,” he said, his tone stern.
I sat up a little and raised my chin. “What?”
His eyes seemed to soften as he looked up at me, slowly releasing his hold on my wrist. One of his hands landed on my thigh, the other reaching up and moving the hair away from my eyes. “There will be girls there,” he said, his voice soft and his eyes on mine. “But it doesn’t matter because none of them are you.”
*
His words should’ve been comforting. They weren’t. All I could think about was that he was out there, looking the way he did, and I was in here, feeling the way I did.
I went to the bathroom, like I’d done so many times before, sat on the floor and faced the corner of the room. The tiles (which I’m sure were once blue, now gray) were small, penny-sized hexagons, perfect for counting. And count them I did. Daily. For hours. Until my eyes felt like they were about to bleed or my stomach rumbled, and I’d take a break, eat, stare at a different wall, and come back to it. The most I’d counted was 2,684. The least, 2,463. But I’d never counted the same number twice, which I guess is good because it kept me going back for more. Crazy? Maybe. But to me—it was the only thing that kept me sane.
Tiny had been around more at night helping to make “my place” more livable. More comfortable. It didn’t really help, but I smiled. I pretended to care, and I did it for Nate because I could see the way he looked at me, hopeful, as if what he was doing was helping me heal, saving me. So I put up the front, and I smiled and nodded and picked out a bed I didn’t care about to go with the rug I didn’t care about and the lamps to match both the things I didn’t fucking care about.
I huffed out a frustrated breath when I realized I’d lost count and started again.
Three times I started over before I gave in to the inevitable and accepted defeat. My mind was racing, filled with so many thoughts I couldn’t focus on one, let alone thousands of numbers.
When Nate had said that he didn’t know how long he’d be gone for, I almost told him that it didn’t matter. It’s not like I could tell if he’d been gone an hour or five. I didn’t say anything, though. I just nodded, told him to be safe, allowed him to kiss me on the forehead and then watched him climb the steps like I’d done too many times to count.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and grabbed his discarded shirt from the bathroom floor before climbing into bed with it. Pathetic, I know, but I couldn’t deny that I missed him. Every second he was gone felt like an eternity.
Tear after tear fell from my eyes.
Sob after sob fell silent from my lips.
Call it love. Call it longing. Call it plain old loneliness.
I may not know what it was—these deep dark feelings I had to keep secret—the only thing I knew was that I feared every single one of them.
Even love.
25
Bailey
I don’t know how I ended up back on the bathroom floor, curled in a ball, gripping Nate’s T-shirt like my life depended on it. His breath was warm against my ear, hand shaking my shoulder as he whispered my name over and over, an urgent lilt in his tone that had my eyes snapping open and my body upright the second I came to. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, hand to his heart as he sat back on his heels.
