Damsel Distressed (27 page)

I wake to feel warm water on my left arm. I force myself to be still and quiet as Grant cleans my thin, pathetic wound. I can't see him. I don't change my breathing or move the pillow from my face, but I know it's him.

I can smell his hair. I can feel the specific way he sits on my bed without making it creak.

But I can't feel him. His gravity is gone.

All that's in me clamors for the familiarity, but there is no pull from him. All this time, I was sure that our connection was all from me: loving and wanting and needing.

But as tears slip onto the pillow beneath me, I know I was wrong. We both held an end of the rope, and now he's letting go.

I hold my breath and almost choke trying to keep still, even as sobs fill my chest. When the cut is clean, there is only silence. And then, right on the raw skin, I feel delicate pressure. Two soft spots, warm and gentle. Lips. I hear his kiss as he pulls his face away and runs his fingertips down to mine before pulling the sleeve of my hoodie back down to my wrist. I search my nerves for the electric charge that always accompanies his touch. I will my spine to shiver. I wait for my heart to take flight.

But it's broken. And maybe, if he's lucky, we are too.

It's morning again. The stupid birds won't leave my window. It's like they don't know that Cinderella lives in the room next door, and I have no desire to sing with them or knit them little bird hats or ever hear music again.

They've been too loud. They've pushed me too far into awake-ness.

The jangling of the doorknob indicates my privacy will soon be violated, so I retreat further into my pillow and blanket enclosure.

I feel the bed sink beside me.

“Seriously. Leave me alone.”

My voice is raw, broken, and unused.

“Come on, Gen. You can't send me away. I'm a total mushroom.” His voice is painfully tender.

My heart flutters for half of a breath in my chest, but as I exhale, it calms.

“Grant. Please, just go. I don't want to see anyone right now.”

“But, Gen, I'm your very favorite mushroom of all time. You don't mean that.”

I will not take the bait. I will not help him set up a stupid punchline. We don't need comic relief.

“Please, just go.”

“Mushroom!” he shouts.

“Oh for God's sake, fine!” I flip over suddenly and pull the biggest pillows away from my face. “Why are you calling yourself a mushroom?”

“You know me, Gen! I'm a fun-guy!”

I hold my deadpan face for as long as I can before attempting to retreat behind my pillow, but he got me.

His stupid joke and his beautiful face and the bandage on my arm and all at once I start to laugh and cry. I look up and see the corners of his mouth are turned up, but that's not his smile.

For one random moment, we both freeze. His sad eyes are dull, and they watch a tear fall down my cheek.

The moment lasts for the rest of my life, until slowly, he reaches up and wipes the tear away.

Radiating out from that spot, throughout my body, my skin tingles like I've been tossed in a fire. The return of that spark locks my walls into place.

“Don't,” I say as I lean back on my arms. “You cannot talk to me like this. All sweet and funny. You shouldn't be here. You should be somewhere, angry.”

“Oh, I'm a little angry. And hurt, Gen. This whole thing sucked. But I'm smart enough to know that you don't take a quote out of context. I don't care about the stupid posters. I got mad when you pulled away and shut me out.”

Fingers of guilt wrap around my spine.

“I came in here and tried to pull you out before you'd fallen too far, but you just threw in the towel and disconnected completely.”

I disconnected.

“And,” he continues, “you can't do that. You can't. Ever. You can never stop fighting because if you lose you, I lose you.”

He starts to say something else while my mouth stays shut, but the words catch in his throat and he looks down at the carpet for only a second. He reaches up and brushes my hair back from my face.

“You are my best friend. The best friend that any person could ever, ever have.”

Best friend. Friend.

I swallow and use my brittle voice again. “But I'm not. I'm selfish. I miss things. I mess up.”

“Yeah, and you also make me laugh and make me feel like I'm better than I am and teach me about strength.”

“But what if I broke us?”

In less than a breath, a smile—his real smile—breaks across his face, and his eyes stare straight into mine as he shakes his head, laughing.

“Oh, would you stop being dramatic? Nothing's broken. A little bruised, maybe, but not broken. Never broken. Not us.”

I throw myself forward without thinking and wrap my arms around his shoulders, resting my head on his chest. His arms circle me tightly, and his hands trace small swirlies on my back. The floodgates open, and the tears pour out like lava, burning my eyes and clearing out everything in their path.

I consider words like “I'm sorry,” and “Thank you,” and “How are you mine?” but before I can speak, my mind empties and my breathing slows and the eruption finally stops.

I pull away and wipe my face all over my sleeve.

“So what happened?” I ask.

“Well, I didn't realize you were gone till after first period. Jonathan skipped second to drive me over and drop me off. The front door was locked, but I sat outside until Evelyn got home.”

I have no idea what to say. Nothing sounds right in my head, so I keep my mouth shut.

“Evelyn was really worried, obviously. I told her you needed a little space but to call Dr. Rodriguez and TG and your dad. She was really, really upset. She kept asking what happened.”

“Well, she's never seen me like this without Dad here. Probably freaked her out.”

“It freaked
everyone
out, Gen. It's scary.” His voice is stern for the span of one word.

I sit up straight on my bed. “Oh my God, you didn't tell her what happened, did you? With Carmella? It would just make everything worse.”

“I probably should have, but I couldn't. And by the time I walked by your locker again, every flier was gone. It was like it never happened. I told Evelyn that someone said mean things to you about the show. But that's it.”

“And Carmella? I've barely even seen her at all.”

“I mean, she's been at school. I haven't said a word to her—and I won't—but she hasn't said a word to me either. I ran into her in the kitchen last night, but she just turned around and walked back out. Whatever that means.”

I grab a cup of water and swirl a big gulp around in my stale mouth.

“So have you talked to my dad? I heard Evelyn talking to him. I know he didn't bother coming home.”

Grant looks away, and I'm instantly suspicious.

“His phone was off when George tried calling him. And when he turned it back on, Evelyn, George, and everyone pretty much had things under control. He wanted to come home immediately, but everyone convinced him you were stable. It wasn't until yesterday that I saw your arm.”

He pauses, and I hear his voice tighten around words he doesn't want to say. I look down at the sleeve of my hoodie.

“How did you know?” I ask.

“I just had a feeling. I pulled up your sleeve, and I had to go call him.”

“Oh, God.” I lean back and look at the ceiling. I can picture it now: my dad talking about betrayal and trust, how I promised I'd never cut again—like it's that easy.

“Seeing your arm like that again really scared me.” His voice is tinged with confusion and disappointment. He pauses, giving me space to respond, but there's nothing I can say. “He just got here. Right now.” Grant pulls his phone from his pocket to check the time. “I begged and pleaded for him to let me talk to you before he busted in here. He gave me exactly five minutes.”

“I guess time's up?”

He nods.

I look at Grant's face and remember his lips on my skin. I think of my dad running to catch a plane and worrying about the girl he'd find when he got home. I think of all those peanut butter sandwiches.

“Thank you for taking care of my arm.” My jaw clenches. “I'm just really, really sorry. And I am glad you're here because you probably shouldn't be. But you can't just let me hurt you because you want to make me better. You shouldn't just forgive me because you want another chance to play the hero.”

His eyes change before me. They seem to pull away, and his brow knits together, just slightly. A whisper of hurt is etched on his face.

“Gen, I wish you could believe me when I say this: I don't want or need to be a hero. And only broken things need fixing.”

I open my mouth to speak, but close it again. I want to tell him that I'm more broken than even I really knew.

And it scares me.

“They've said I can crash on the couch downstairs. So I'm going to. Turn your phone back on and text me if you need anything.”

“I know you wanted to check on me, but it's okay, really.”

He looks at me with a face that is hard to understand. His eyes are gentle, but his brows are furrowed. His jaw seems clenched, the muscles twitching beneath his skin, but his mouth is relaxed and he bites his bottom lip for just a second before he answers.

“I'll stay,” he says.

He turns and walks out the door.

I take to straightening myself up in my bed. I prop myself against my pillows and pull my hair back into a neat bun just as the door creaks open slowly.

My dad looms in the doorframe. He is tall and lean and dressed in a perfect college professor costume, but it's actually from his everyday wardrobe. His face is dotted with great blue eyes that always seem to shimmer. But not now. His skin is grey, and his cheeks are scruffy and hollow. His hair is rumpled, and his shirt is untucked.

He plants himself at the edge of my bed and places his hand on my leg.

“Hi, Dad,” I say feebly.

“Hey, Immy.”

I can't look at him. I know that the second I do, I'll burst into tears, and for some reason, I just don't want him to see me like that. I don't want him to see me fall apart again. I don't want him to think about the girl he carried down the stairs in the middle of a nervous breakdown not even a full year ago.

I set my jaw and focus on a spot in the center of his chest.

“Oh, baby girl.” He scoots over and sits against my headboard, pulling me under his wing.

At least now I don't have to see his eyes.

“I'm sorry, Dad.”

“You don't have to apologize to me.”

“I do. You had to come home early because I can't hold myself together. Even when I try.”

“Coming home to make sure you're okay isn't a burden, Imogen. It's my job.”

“Is it?” The question comes out in a much more accusatory tone than I mean it to, but the ball starts rolling and I decide to let the honesty flow. “Dad, I don't blame you for needing a break from me. If I were in your position I'd probably need to get away too. I can't imagine what it feels like to have a daughter that has been broken and sad and angry and damaged for as long as I have. I probably couldn't stand to be around me either.”

He sits me up and tries to catch my eye. I avoid him for as long as I can until he finally draws my attention up to his face.

“Listen to me. Yes, watching you hurt is harder than you could ever imagine. You're absolutely right. I hate it. I hate to see you in pain. But I'm not escaping you.”

The flicker of peace he brought into my room threatens to go out.

“Immy, you had such a good summer. George said you were doing great. And when my publicist said there were places willing to pay me to come and talk about grief and the book, I thought the timing was right. I didn't know what you were going through, and I didn't plan to miss this.”

“I know you didn't plan it, Dad, but how could you go and make this whole new career out of writing about her and talking about her to other people when you barely talk about her to me?” I feel my chin begin to quiver.

My father swallows and runs his hand over his scruffy face. “I don't know if you've ever really thought about it, but I don't know anything about losing a mom. I know how to lose the mother of my child. How to lose my best friend. But I don't know how to say the right things to you. Sometimes I look at you, and all I can see is pain I can't heal. And it guts me. And it's horrible. But I'd carry all your pain and all of mine if I could. I love you so much. I would do anything to take that pain from you.”

My eyes have filled with tears, and even though I don't want him to watch them fall, I know that he sees them there. I reach up and wipe them away.

“This hurt…” He gestures to his own chest. “is never going away. Ever. And neither is yours. But that doesn't mean life is over.” He points at my heart, too. “Every single hour of every single day I pray for the moment that you realize she left behind so much more than just pain.”