Текст книги "Falling "

Автор книги: E. K. Blair

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

She tucks her head down and leans into me as I fold her securely in my arms, vowing to myself that I will do everything I can to show this girl how strong she really is.

“That’s why Kimber is mad,” she says as she continues to talk. “I didn’t go home after it happened. I stayed with Jase and never told her why. She knows I’m lying.”

I listen. That’s all she wants from me, so that’s what I give her.

“I’ve been taking sleeping pills, but I stopped last week. That’s why I haven’t been sleeping.” She pauses before revealing, “I dream about that night—about him. All I see are his eyes. He made me watch him.”

A new bout of sobs courses through her, and anger courses through me, but I keep my cool for her. I take myself out of this and focus on her when she adds, “So, I take pills to keep him away.”

“Babe, why did you stop taking them?”

“Because every night when I take them, it’s only a reminder of what happened. I just want to forget, but I can’t.”

“Have you told anyone?” I ask as I brush her hair behind her shoulder.

“No. Only Jase and Mark. Jase was with me in the hospital. Mark only knows because he walked in and saw my face. I was pretty banged up.”

“Your parents?”

“God, no. It was because of them that I went out with that guy at all.”

“You knew him?” I ask, not expecting that she knew the fucker. “But you didn’t do anything?”

“No.”

“I wanna fucking kill him,” I spit out, anger swelling inside of me. I swear to God, I’m gonna kill that piece of shit. My body tenses up, and I do everything I can to bring myself back down—for her. It takes a while, but I begin to focus on Candace and what she needs out of me. I know she’s afraid I’m gonna run, but she’s wrong.

Looking at her straight on, I assure her, “This changes nothing for me. Okay? Nothing. No one will ever love you like I do.” I kiss her. I feel it’s all I can do right now to show her that I’m here and I’m not leaving her. When I do finally drag my lips away, I give her more of me when I say, “You are the only reason there’s light in my life. Before you, there was nothing but darkness.”

As the tears linger on her cheeks, I lean in and kiss them, tasting the salt of her secret that’s been eating her up. But now it’s out there, and she doesn’t have to find ways to hide from me anymore. She trusts me enough to allow me to see the darkest side of her, and I love her for that.

I didn’t want to leave Candace the day following her nightmare. I felt like being close to her, but she told me that it would have made her feel uncomfortable if I cancelled work to stay with her, and even though I didn’t like it, I understood it. She’s afraid things have changed between us, and just because I assured her that they haven’t, I need to show her. So I went into work, and she went to Jase’s where she managed to drink way too much wine, and for the first time in her life, got wasted.

Candace is still sleeping when I finish my shower and get dressed. Bringing her home last night was an adventure. She’s gonna feel like shit when she wakes up today, but seeing her drunk was about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

I woke up in the middle of the night to find her fighting sleep. She said she was scared of having another nightmare, and it was tearing me up inside, so I stayed up and talked to her so that she could fall asleep. After she was out, I found myself wanting to stay awake to watch her, make sure she slept peacefully. Her nightmare scared the crap out of me, so I can’t imagine how scary it was for her.

The past few weeks have drained me emotionally, so while she sleeps, I decide to head up to the bar before anyone gets there to get a little space from everything. I write Candace a note before I leave, letting her know where I went and to call when she gets up.

Walking into Blur, I leave the front door unlocked while I busy myself filling bottles behind the bar. I spend a good amount of time staying occupied, but my mind is elsewhere. It’s in that alley, and my stomach won’t seem to unknot itself to buy me any relief. I grab a bottle of scotch and take a seat at the bar, filling my glass.

I don’t take a sip; I just sit and stare at the burnished liquid. It’s placid, and I get lost as I zone out in the glass. I’m so deep in my head that I don’t even hear the door open, but when someone takes a seat next to me, I turn to see Jase. His expression tells me that he knows I know. Candace must have told him last night. I focus back on my glass that’s still sitting on the bar, cradled in my hands.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I can barely move my head up and down to acknowledge his words that take me out of my daze and bring me back to the mass of emotions.

Without looking at him, I talk. “I always knew she was hiding something, I just . . .”

“I know.”

“She has these moments in her sleep . . . almost nightly . . .”

“It’s a lot better now,” he says, and I turn to look at him.

“Better?” He nods and I ask, because I want to know, “How bad was she?”

His head drops to the side, not wanting to tell me when I ask again. “How bad?”

“Don’t do this.”

“How bad?”

He takes a pause before he tells me, “Bad. It was like suddenly the Candace I had always known was gone.”

I turn back to my glass and take a drink before setting it back down, relishing the burn in my chest. Warmth.

“So she was different?” I ask, wondering what she would have been like if only I’d met her before that night.

“Yeah, but like I said, she’s better.”

“Better,” I repeat, not knowing what else to say, trying hard to keep the pain at bay. “How?”

“She used to have these hallucinations. It freaked me out. They were intense, and I’d always find her vomiting in my bathroom.”

His words punch me in the gut. Thinking about her like that is almost too much, and I feel the tears return, but I fight to hold them back.

“She said she knew him.” My words crack as they find their way out past the lump in my throat.

“Yeah.”

I turn back to him and ask, “You know him too?”

Shaking his head, he tells me, “I met him once.”

“Who is he?”

He releases a hard sigh when I press, “Who is he?”

He still doesn’t respond when I question, “Did you ever do anything?”

“I wanted to. I still do.” His breathing staggers as his eyes redden and gloss over. “But I can’t. Candace made me promise, and I just can’t break that promise. It would hurt her too much.”

“Why didn’t she do anything?”

“She was scared. Embarrassed. I tried talking to her, but she’d rather bury it, so that’s what she did.”

I shake my head, and when I do, he speaks up, “Look, man, I wanna kill that bastard. I do. I saw what he did to her, and he fucked her up . . . bad. But I love her. And as much as I hate that all she wants to do is hide this shit, I don’t fight it because I don’t want to hurt her.” I watch his tears fall as he adds, “I know what you two have is completely different than what I have with her, but she’s my fuckin’ heart, man. I hate her choices, but I also know how fragile she is right now, so I let it be. Right or wrong, I just give her what she wants.”

I can’t speak even if I wanted to because the pain in my chest is nearly unbearable at this point. All I can do is give him a nod, and I know he sees the emotion on my face. How could a person hide it?

He stands up and grips my shoulder, saying, “I couldn’t deal with this shit if it weren’t for Mark. If you ever need to talk . . .”

“Yeah. Thanks,” I respond on a breath before he turns to walk out the door.

When he’s out of my vision, I drop my head in my hands and let it out. It’s a haze of unrecognizable emotions beating through me. To look past this and let her continue to sit and do nothing is something that I don’t think I’m capable of. But Jase is right. My girl is so damn fragile even though she’s so damn strong. It’s a paradox that’s hard to deal with. She’s gonna break one way or another.

Irritation boils inside, and the longer I sit here it starts to eat away at me until it takes over and I stand up, kicking over the stool, screaming, and smashing my glass against the brick wall behind the bar followed next by the bottle. The blast of glass shattering and sprinkling to the floor is all I hear through the ringing in my head. I grab my keys, leaving the mess, and head to my jeep.

I drive. Making my way back to my loft and upstairs to find Candace standing in my closet, slipping on a sweater.

“Why didn’t you do anything?” I ask, unable to control my frustration.

She turns to look at me, confused, when she asks, “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Ryan, please. Don’t,” she says and then walks past me to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Who is he?” I press, emotions getting the best of me.

She keeps her chin tucked down. Avoiding.

“Candace, tell me his fuckin’ name!” I belt out because sitting around and not doing shit isn’t gonna work for me.

“Please don’t do this,” she chokes out as she begins to cry.

“Why aren’t you more pissed?”

“I am.”

“You’re not,” I tell her as I stand in front of her. “I don’t see it.”

She doesn’t respond, and I plead with her, needing to make sense of all of this. “Tell me why I don’t see it. Make me understand because this shit is killing me.”

“Because I don’t know how to show it,” she weeps as she looks up at me.

My heart is hammering hard in my chest. She’s so locked up, and I don’t know how to help her.

“I need you to show it. I need to see it,” I tell her as I kneel down in front of her, gripping her legs.

“Don’t.”

“I wanna see you fighting. I wanna see you doing something since you won’t let me do shit.”

“Why? For what?”

“For you, Candace! It’s for you,” I say in a hard voice. “Show me that you’re mad because my anger is beyond what I think I can handle right now.”

Her breathing picks up as she cries harder.

“Show me,” I push.

“I can’t.”

“You can. Use me,” I urge. “Yell at me. Scream. Hit me. Punch me. Something! Just do something!” I shout as she sobs. “Stop crying and do something! Hit me!”

“Ryan, stop!” she screams, and when she tries to move away from me, I grab on to her wrists and she kneels down next to me, bracing her hands on the floor as she cries.

“I want you to fight. I want you to fight because I’m so fuckin’ mad and you won’t let me fight for you.”

“You wanna fight?” I stand in the doorway and listen to my dad. “Come here,” he says to my mom with a crooked finger, and she steps towards him. “Hit me.”

“No.”

“Hit me, you little bitch!”

She stands there crying when he pulls his clenched fist back and punches her in the stomach, forcing out a gush of air as she heaves and doubles over.

“Daddy, stop!”

He looks at me. “You want me to stop?” he asks before impaling her ribs with his boot.

Her screams are strained as I start to cry.

“Stop!”

He kicks her again as she lies there, lifeless.

“Tell me to stop again, you sack of shit.”

I look at Candace doubled over on the floor—crying—and it hits me.

“God, baby. I’m sorry,” I say, reaching out to touch her, but she coils back from me.

“It wouldn’t even do anything,” she snaps. “You want me to fight? Why? It’s not going to change anything. It’s not going to make it better. It’s not going to take it away.”

Realizing that I pushed her way too far, that I scared her by yelling at her, I reach out, and again, she resists my touch. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t hear me, she just continues, “I just wanna forget. I just want it to go away. But me fighting isn’t gonna make that happen. The damage is done, and I can’t go back.”

“Baby,” I say as gently as I can. “You can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Why not?” her voice a mere whimper. So desperate. “What’s so bad about pretending?”

This time when I reach for her, she doesn’t flinch, and I fold her up in my arms. “Because it did happen.”

“Why?” she cries into my chest. “Tell me why this happened. Why me? What did I do to deserve this?”

There are no answers as she completely breaks and continues crying, collapsed in my lap. I feel like absolute shit for pushing her to this point, and all my fears are brought back to the forefront. I can’t deny for one second that I don’t resemble my father in frightening ways. That I could be so selfish to be screaming at my girlfriend as she’s crumpled on the floor crying. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, but I can’t do that shit to her. Fuck, why did I just do that to her?

“I’m so sorry.” I’m desperate as my voice cracks.

She grips her arms around me while I rest my cheek on top of her head. I can’t believe I let my anger take control of me. Just knowing the thoughts of what I would do to that guy if I ever saw him scares the shit out of me. I can’t let this happen again with her; I just can’t because I know myself well enough to know that I’ll never walk away from her, so I have to get my shit under control.

I rub her back until eventually she quiets down, taking in hiccups of breaths. She has the sleeves of my t-shirt fisted in her hands, and when she lifts her head up, she keeps her eyes closed. I kiss her forehead, and she presses her weight into my lips. She’s exhausted.

“Hey,” I say lightly, and when she hums in response, I encourage, “Can you look at me?”

She does, and when I see how red her eyes are, I feel disgusted with myself.

“I’m so sorry. I should have never raised my voice like that. I just feel so helpless, but how I feel isn’t your fault. I don’t want you to think that it is.”

“You can say that, but the thing is, it’s because of me that you feel this way.”

I don’t know how to respond to her words, but she doesn’t give me time when she says, “I just . . . I don’t want to lose you. I don’t have very many people that . . . I mean . . . I don’t even have a home anymore.”

When she looks up at me and into my eyes I tell her, “You are home.”

“Am I?”

Wiping under her eyes with my thumbs, I ask, “Is this what you want?”

Nodding her head, she whispers, “Yes.”

“Then you’re home,” I give her and wrap her back up in my arms.

Candace wound up getting a bad headache and is sleeping again. Not only is she worn out from what happened earlier, she’s also not feeling well after drinking so much with Jase last night.

I leave her be as I head down to my office. Despite the shit day, I need to call my mom because in Candace’s drunken state last night, she revealed that her birthday is in a few days, and I want to surprise her by having my mom here. They have been talking more and more on the phone, and I know Candace would like to see her. Hell, after this month, it’ll be nice to have her here for a few days.

“Hi, dear,” she says when she answers my call.

“Hey, Mom. I have a favor to ask.”

“Sure. What is it?”

“It’s Candace’s birthday on Thursday, and I was wondering if you can manage to get away for a few days and come stay here with us?” I ask.

“This Thursday?”

“Yeah.”

“Ryan, that’s in five days. Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?” she nags.

“Because I just found out last night. This was sprung on me too, Mom.”

“Why did she wait so long to tell you?”

“I don’t know, but it slipped out last night. I know she’d love to see you, so I was hoping . . .”

“I’ll be there.”

“Thanks. I’m not gonna tell her, so if you two talk before then, don’t mention anything. I want her to be surprised.”

“Lips are sealed.”

“And no gifts,” I remind her.

“Ryan.”

“I have no problem with it, but I know how she is, so . . .”

“Fine. No gifts,” she says with a faint laugh. “How has everything else been? I haven’t talked to Candace in a few days; how did her audition go?”

“It seemed to go really well. She was insanely happy afterward. She should know if she got the solo on Friday.”

“That’s great. Is she around to talk to?”

“She’s sleeping.”

“Oh, okay. Well, tell her to call me when she has time.”

“Yeah, I will.”

“Everything else okay?” she asks, and although I’ve always been open with my mom, I know this thing with Candace will forever remain private, so I simply tell her, “Yeah, Mom. Everything’s great.”

We continue to chat for a few more minutes before we say goodbye. When I walk upstairs, I see Candace curled into a small ball in the center of my bed. Shrugging off my shirt, I crawl in to take a nap with her. I slide in behind her, and as I pull her into me, she rolls over to face me, eyes still closed. Draping my arm around her, she nuzzles her head in the curve of my neck, and finally, after all the tension of the day, I relax in the warmth of her.

“What do you want to do for your birthday, babe?” I ask as she stretches before heading to the studio for rehearsals. I always enjoy seeing her like this—poised, hair up tight in a bun, leotard with an old pair of torn, baggy sweats. There’s no doubt she was made to dance because she completely looks the part, and that look is doing things to me that I need to get under control.

“Nothing. I told Jase that the four of us could just grab dinner.”

“We do that all the time.”

She sits on the ground to roll her ankles when she says, “Please don’t get any ideas. I really don’t like doing anything for my birthday.”

“Why?” I ask when I sit in front of her and take her leg in my hand to rub out her muscles.

“My mom would always throw me these over-the-top parties when I was little. Well, she threw them for her and her friends. It was all show with the moms, everyone trying to one-up the others. It was never what I wanted, and I would spend the whole day upset but forced to pretend to be their perfect daughter and behave as etiquette told me I should.”

“So let me do something nice for you,” I suggest.

“It makes me uncomfortable. It always has. I’m a year older; I just don’t see the big deal in making a fuss over it.”

“Candace.”

Her only response is a shrug of her shoulders.

“So tell me then, what was it that you really wanted when you were a kid?” I ask when I move to massage her other leg.

Her hands rest in her lap as she sits on the floor and tells me, “Simple. It sounds trite, but what I really wanted was my friends to come over and play with me. Have a cheap cake from the grocery store instead of the fondant covered ones my mom would order from the bakery in town. That fondant tastes like crap, you know?” she says with her brows raised with exaggeration, and I laugh at her.

“I don’t even know what that is,” I admit with a smile.

“Well, it’s gross. And I hated—hated—being forced to open all the gifts in front of everyone. I never got toys, but instead little trinkets and things. Like that bouncy ball,” she exclaims. “I never got stuff like that.”

“So that’s why you hate getting presents?”

“It’s just awkward for me, so I’d rather not deal with it.”

“I’ll call Jase. Why don’t we just hang out here? Eat pizza, watch TV,” I suggest.

She smiles, agreeing, “Sounds perfect.”

She’s simple in ways that I like, but for reasons that shouldn’t be. I’ll give Candace her non-birthday birthday party, but I can’t not get her something to make it special. Because it is. So I’ll find a way to do that for her without making her feel uncomfortable. My girl can be a challenge, but I like that about her.

While Candace is busy on campus all day, I head over to Fremont to stop by a couple vintage antique shops. Jase and Candace are always hanging out here, and I know Candace well enough that she doesn’t buy most of her things from mass marketed retail shops. Yeah, she’s simple, but she likes nice things.

I spend a couple hours roaming around, but nothing catches my eye, so I decide to walk down to Peet’s and grab a coffee. When I pass by one of the little shops, the name stops me because Candace came home the other day with some shaving lather for me from here.

Stepping into Essenza, the place is filled with fine European perfumes, soaps, clothes, and jewelry. This looks like a place that she would shop. I’m the only one here and the lady behind the counter steps out and walks over to me, saying, “You look lost,” with a friendly smile.

“That obvious?”

Her smile is warm and even though she screams elegance, she’s quite relaxed when she offers me a glass of wine.

“I’m good.”

“So what are we shopping for?”

“A girl. I know she’s been here before, so I thought I would stop in,” I tell her.

“What’s her name?”

“Candace.”

“The ballerina?” she squeals.

I nod my head when she adds, “She’s been shopping here for years. We’re the only boutique in the state that carries the perfume she wears, so she’s pretty loyal.”

“Why does that not surprise me? That she would’ve picked a perfume that was exclusive to one store in the whole state of Washington,” I laugh as she joins in.

“You must be the guy she was shopping for last time she was in a couple weeks back.”

I nod and introduce myself, “I’m Ryan.”

I give her a friendly handshake as she says, “Well, I’ll let you be. Please, I’m Viv, let me know if I can help you or if you change your mind about the wine.”

Joking, I ask, “Does your boss know you drink on the job?”

“Please,” she drawls and winks at me, adding, “It’s a requirement.”

I wander over to check out the perfumes, and sure enough, I spot her bottle of Flou. Next to the display there is an old antique wrought-iron table with a locked glass case that serves as the round table top. Looking down through the glass, there are a few pieces of handcrafted jewelry, most of them rings. There are a couple hand stamped pieces with various quotes. I eye one of the necklaces. It’s the only one with a flat, rectangular bar at the drop that connects the thin, delicate chain. I stop looking at the rest of the jewelry when I read words that couldn’t be more true, and I know I have to get this for her because this—these words—is exactly how I see her and how I need her to see herself.

Looking up to Viv, who is sipping her wine, I ask, “Can you show me a piece from this case?”

She hops up and comes over to unlock the glass, and I show her the one I’m looking at. She pulls it out and hands it to me.

“It’s perfect,” I murmur as I look it over. The stamped letters are rugged and uneven, a contrast to the polished silver bar and fragile chain.

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

I look up and she clarifies, “The quote. It’s from ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’”

I run my thumb over the jagged impressions of the words, And though she be but little, she is fierce. “Was this here the last time she was in?”

“No.”

“I’ll take it.”

When I hand her the necklace, I follow her over to the counter. “A gift?” she asks.

“It’s her birthday.”

“Shall I wrap it?”

“No,” I say, and when she looks up at me, I add with a smirk, “She hates gifts.”

She smiles as she takes my credit card. “Ryan, Ryan, Ryan,” she tsks and then swipes my card before handing it back to me. “I like you.”

“Not gonna lie, Viv, I like you too,” I respond with a light chuckle before she hands me the bag.

I head out to my car, having one more errand to run, because I’m not quite satisfied yet.

When I get home later, I hear Candace in the shower, so I go ahead and stash my purchases. I walk into my closet, shoving them into one of the drawers and cover them up with a couple sweaters. My camera sits on the tabletop of the drawers, and I grab it, taking it with me as I flop on the bed and wait for Candace to come out. I scroll through the only pictures that are stored—the ones of Candace’s back. I click on each one, zooming in on the preview screen to get a closer look.

The bathroom door opens, and I look up to see her walking out, towel drying her hair, wearing a t-shirt and a pair of my boxers. God, she’s hot.

“I didn’t know you were home,” she says as she stands at the foot of the bed.

Ignoring her statement, I let her know, “I like it when you wear my underwear.”

“Stop,” she says in a nagging voice as I pop up to my knees.

“I’m serious. It’s hot as shit.”

When she laughs at me, I hold my hand out to her and pull her on top of the bed with me, twisting around and laying her on her back. Her skin is still damp from her shower, and I weave my fingers into her wet hair as I begin to plant slow kisses down her neck. She smells insanely good, and when I pull back to look down at her, I’m taken by how beautiful she looks right now.

Leaning over, I pick up my camera, and as soon as I bring it up to my eye, she covers her face, complaining, “No.”

“What?”

“You can’t just take my picture.”

I laugh at her. “Don’t be shy with me,” I tell her and then sit back on my heels. “Let me see you.”

She removes her hands from her face, and when she does, I say, “Let me photograph you.”

Lying there, she doesn’t respond one way or the other, so I bring the camera back up to my eye and snap a few quick shots of her. Hair splayed around her face, flushed cheeks, and a soft expression on her face.

“Thanks,” I say when I’m done capturing her face and then shift to the side of her, holding the camera back to my face.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving myself something to work on,” I mutter before adding, “Bend your legs up, babe.”

She does without question, and I use my hand to maneuver them to my liking until they are at the perfect angle. The clicks of the shutter are the only sounds that fill the room as she lies there, watching me intently every time I shift my eyes to hers. I’m glad she’s comfortable with this and not so tense like she was the last time we did this.

I move to set the camera on the nightstand and then back to her, easing my weight on top of her. She runs her hands along my face, drawing me down to kiss her. We let ourselves get lost in one another, moving in a way I have only done with her, and when her shirt hits the floor with mine, I drop my head to her chest. Her arms encircle my head as I cover her in my mouth, finding that the feel of her lace bras are a turn-on I never expected.

Her skin is soft beneath my hand as I run it down her side and to her leg as I tighten my grip because she feels that damn good. When she grazes her lips up my neck, she sends chills down my arms. Our breaths begin to run deep, and my need for her strengthens as I slide my hand in from her hips, over the waistband of her boxers, and down between her legs, cupping the heat of her.

“Stop,” she snaps and jerks my hand away, startling me.

“Babe?”

“Just . . . don’t,” she whispers.

I accept all of her hesitations, but it still hurts when she rejects my touches. Her eyes are closed when I lie down beside her, pulling her hip over so that she’s facing me.

“Please look at me,” I urge in a hushed voice, and when she does, I go with transparent honesty and say, “I want to touch you.”

“I know. I just . . .” I see the worry in her eyes and the lines in her forehead.

“You can tell me anything, babe. I’ll never judge you.”

She takes her time as I run my hand up her arm and into her hair. When she does speak, it’s strained as she confesses, “He’s the only one that’s touched me there.”

I work hard to not get upset. To stay calm so that I can talk to her about this because we can’t keep avoiding it. I know this is the last thing she probably wants to discuss, but it has to be done, so I choose my words carefully, telling her, “You know that I would never hurt you.”

“I know. It isn’t that.”

“Then tell me what it is. I need to understand.”

She tucks her chin down, and when I lift it back up with my fingers, I explain, “I need you to talk to me about this because I need to know.”

“It’s embarrassing,” she admits quietly.

“There is nothing for you to be embarrassed about, babe. But I’m gonna be honest with you—it hurts when you push me away because I don’t want you to be scared of me.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“Then what?”

After she lets out a slow sigh, she finally reveals, “It makes me feel dirty.”

My forehead gently falls against hers, and I close my eyes, shaking my head. With my hands on her back, I feel the soft heaves, letting me know she’s crying. It infuriates me that he did this to her. That this is how she views intimacy. The last thing I would ever expect or want her to feel when she’s with me like this is dirty. Knowing that makes me sick to my stomach.

“Listen to me,” I say when I pull my head back to look at her. “That guy was a piece of shit, we both know that. He’s a sick fuck, and yeah, what he did and how he touched you was dirty. The disgust is beyond that. But that isn’t what this is. That isn’t us,” I try to explain to her. I pull her in tight, continuing, “I want to touch you and feel you. He made that something ugly for you, and I hate him for that. That he could take that away from us.”

“I’m sorry,” she cries.

“You have nothing—nothing—to be sorry for,” I scold. “He did this, not you. The way I want to touch you is nothing like that. I love you, and I want to touch you like this because it’s a way for me to feel close to you. It’s a way for me to love you and to make you feel that too.”

The tears run down the side of her face as she responds, “I want to give that to you. I do. I feel awful that I can’t, but I’m trying. I need you to know that I am trying.”

Wiping her face, I say, “I know you are. I see it. I’m not blaming you, but we need to talk about this so that I can understand.”

“I hate this,” she confesses and then buries her head in my chest.

“I know you do, and if I could do something I would. I just don’t know what that would be. But I love you, even the parts of you that you think are ugly. I love it all.”