My attention immediately latches onto the lumpy red piece of fruit sitting on top of a Tupperware full of leftovers. He has a pomegranate!
“And it’s all mine,” I think excitedly.
I take it and the tea back to the couch and sit down next to him.
“Do you mind if I have this?” I ask, holding up the pomegranate.
“Planning on being here for a while? They take forever to eat.”
“I’ll be here as long as you want me to be.”
“Go ahead, then. I... I really want the company,” he answers awkwardly.
I watch him closely as he sips his tea. He looks much better now that the doctor put it in a cast. The bone is set correctly and the swelling in his hand has mostly gone away.
“Owen... what happened to your hand?”
“I got angry,” he answers succinctly.
I silently glare at him. That’s not going to cut it tonight.
“I... well, I got really angry, and I hit the table,” he confesses, pointing to the dining room table.
“You hit the table so hard that you broke your hand?” I ask in shock, gaping at him.
He nods sheepishly.
“Why?” I gasp, shaking my head. “What on earth could possibly get you that angry?”
Owen struggles to his feet without a word and wobbles across the living room away from me. I leap to my feet and hurry after him, worried that he’ll fall and hurt himself.
“I’m okay! Let go of me,” he protests, his voice slurring as he tries to extract his arm from my grip. I shake my head and hold tightly to him, and he quickly gives up. Instead, he leads me up to the wall of photographs and points to one near the sliding glass door to the balcony.
I immediately recognize him in the picture. He was handsome even as a teenager. A young, brown-haired girl stands next to him in the picture and waves to the camera.
“This is my family,” he tells me, his voice calm and quiet.
His father is a gruff, bearded man built like a lumberjack and with about as much fashion sense. Owen clearly inherited most of his genes from his mother. She is slender and beautiful, with long, straight blond hair and a narrow nose. His father has brown hair like the little girl.
“You all look very happy,” I say, not sure what else is appropriate.
“Every last one of us is faking that smile,” he tells me, and the sadness in his voice nearly breaks my heart.
“If I didn’t smile in that picture—if I didn’t act like we were a perfectly normal family—I’d have been in deep, deep shit when we got home,” he continues.
I squeeze his arm softly and lean in closer to him as he stares at the picture. I can’t bring myself to say anything, but I hope he knows that I’m listening. I want to hear his story.
He takes a deep breath and turns to face me.
“Those broken bones I told you I’d had before...”
He cuts himself off and starts to turn away from me, but I reach up and gently put my hand on his shoulder to stop him.
“Please tell me,” I whisper.
“They’re all from Dad,” he says, his voice cracking. “He’s why I never go home. He’s still back there, and it’ll be just like it always has been if I ever go back there.”
Without a second thought, I wrap my arms around him and hug him. I’ve never seen someone need to be held so badly in my life.
“I’m scared, Maria. This is my last semester, and I still don’t have a job.”
He chokes up as he talks, and I don’t know what else to do but hold him and listen.
“I don’t want to go back home,” he whispers. “I don’t want to be a kid again because going back there means going back into Hell.”
“What about your sister?” I whisper, rocking slowly back and forth as I hold him close. “Is she still back there?”
He lays his head on my shoulder and bursts into tears.
“God, I miss her more than anyone on earth, Maria,” he sobs. “I’d do anything to bring her back. Anything!”
“Bring her back?” I repeat as a terrible chill runs down my spine.
Owen looks up at me, his cheeks wet with tears and his eyes wide with fear and distrust. I immediately understand the look on his face. He’s feeling exactly what I felt when I first told Tina about Darren: the fear of rejection, the terror that comes with trusting someone with your darkest secret.
Owen just told me his secret, and now he’s afraid that I’ll hurt him with it.
I’d rather die than hurt him.
“Her name is Samantha, and she died when I was seventeen,” he whispers. “She tried to stand up for mom during a fight, and Dad beat her to death.”
He starts to cry again and I wrap my arms even more tightly around him.
“I promised I’d protect her,” he sobs inconsolably. “I promised I’d protect her from him, and instead I got scared and hid from him!”
All I can do is hold him as I stare at the tiny girl in the photograph. Now that he’s told me his secret, I can see the fake smiles and forced happiness. The only person with a genuine smile is his father.
“She’s gone, and it’s my fault.”
His voice is cold and dead as he finishes, and he pulls away from me and returns to the couch.
“When was your last pain pill?” I ask, hoping to pull his attention away from the miserable memories.
“Four hours ago,” he answers, glancing up at the kitchen clock.
“Okay, let’s get you another.”
He slurps it down with his tea, which has long since gone cold, and he lies back on the couch as I sit beside him.
“I’m sorry, Owen,” I say, picking awkwardly at my fingernails. “I didn’t mean to hurt you by bringing it up.”
“It’s okay,” he answers. “You needed to know what a wreck I am.”
“You’re not a wreck!” I protest, but he only shakes his head and changes the subject.
“You didn’t eat your pomegranate,” he whispers, pointing at the dull red fruit sitting on the coffee table.
“You were more important,” I answer, running a hand through his soft hair as he stares down at the fruit.
“You know why I like pomegranates?” he asks, closing his eyes and leaning his head on the arm of the couch. His voice is dull and slow, as if he’s teetering on the edge of sleep.
“Why?”
“Because they’re so ugly,” he whispers. “They look like they’re totally disgusting.”
“Then why...”
“Yeah... look so disgusting,” he babbles quietly. He’s getting loopier and loopier as the Vicodin kicks in.
He opens his eyes and sits upright again.
“But then... you go and open one,” he says, and he stares at me as if waiting for me to do something.
I stare right back at him, completely confused, until he finally points to the pomegranate.
“Go on. Open it.”
With two quick slices of a butter knife, I cut through the soft husk of the pomegranate and pull it apart into four quarters.
“When you break one open, it’s beautiful and delicious,” whispers Owen. “It’s absolutely perfect, but not until you break it.”
I stare at the glistening red fruit—each deep red pip glowing in the dim light of the apartment—and the pool of juice forming beneath it on the dish. I’m not one for poetry, but I’m stunned to silence.
He lies back down on the couch and closes his eyes. The Vicodin is knocking him out cold.
“Maria?” he whispers, his voice soft and his breathing slow as he begins to fall asleep.
“Yes?”
“You’re just like me, aren’t you?”
I look back at the pomegranate, not sure how to answer him. He’s right—it really is beautiful now that it’s been ripped apart.
“I guess I am,” I finally answer, but it’s too late. He’s already fast asleep.
I run my hand gently through his hair again. He looks so peaceful now that he’s aslee
p, but once he wakes up, he’ll be weak and scared again just like me.
He rolls in his sleep, and as he turns his head, I see the scar running along his jaw. I nervously reach out and run a finger softly along it. It’s a fine, white line against his already pale skin. Now that I’m close to him, I see more and more scars just like it under his chin, on his neck, and even one running along his eyelid.
I look down at his crossed arms, and now that I know what to look for, I see the scars there too. He has more of them than I can count—some older and nearly invisible, some newer and more obvious—and they’re everywhere.
“He really hurt you, didn’t he?” I whisper, and I gently touch his cheek.
He stirs in his sleep and I yank my hand away in fear. He doesn’t wake, though, and my nervousness settles quickly.
Owen’s sister is dead, and he clearly can’t turn to his parents for help. I have Tina to protect me, but who does he have? He’s completely alone.
No, he's not alone at all. Not anymore.
He has me.
Saturday, March 2 – 10:30 AM
Owen
When I wake up the next morning, I feel as if I’ve been run over by a truck. My hand hurts, my neck hurts, everything hurts. I try to sit up and nausea hits me like a hammer. I feel like I’m going to vomit, but I’m too dizzy to get up and race to the bathroom.
“Take it easy, dude,” says Craig from somewhere nearby. I could figure out where he was if my head would stop spinning.
“What the hell’s wrong with me?” I groan.
“It’s called Vicodin on an empty stomach,” he answers calmly.
My vision starts to settle out and my eyes finally focus on him. He’s sitting in the armchair across from me, flipping through one of his textbooks. I struggle to my feet and catch myself on the arm of the sofa as I lose my balance and nearly fall over again.
“God, I feel like shit.”
“You look like it too, buddy,” he tells me, shaking his head. “Seriously, go eat something. There’s yogurt in the fridge, or leftover pizza if you think your stomach can handle it.”
It feels like someone’s hitting me in the head with a crowbar as the harsh fluorescent lights flickers to life overhead. I shield my eyes from the glare of the refrigerator’s light bulb and then wobble back to the couch with a slice of cold pepperoni pizza.
“Hey Craig, what time is it?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just relax,” he answers, and I shake my head at him.
“Professor Meador needs me to grade some homework and he wants me to pick it up at noon.”
“I’ve already called him,” Craig tells me, his voice calm and peaceful. “He knows you’re not coming.”
“Craig! That’s my only paycheck!”
I try to get up from the sofa but immediately fall back down.
“I said relax! Just sit down and get some food in your belly, okay?”
“But...”
“Maria’s picking up the homework for you,” he blurts out.
I stare blankly at him, and then suddenly, last night comes rushing back to me.
Maria took me to the hospital. How did I forget that so quickly? She was here with me! She sat next to me on the couch until I fell asleep.
She took care of me all night. I remember it now.
A wave of embarrassment washes over me as I remember telling her about the pomegranate, and then my heart drops into my stomach as I remember the rest.
I told her about Dad and Samantha.
I can’t believe it. I seriously went and told her about my disaster of a family. I close my eyes and sigh as I lean back on the couch. There goes whatever chance I might have had.
I should have known that it was hopeless in the first place; why would a girl as perfect as her want anything to do with a mess like me? I have more baggage than most airlines, and unlike them, I can’t seem to lose any of it.
“Did Maria say anything to you?” I ask quietly, dreading Craig’s response.
“She told me about the Vicodin and the trip to the hospital last night,” he answers. “Sorry I wasn’t around, dude. I had no idea you were hurt. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I didn’t want your help. I didn’t want anyone’s help.”
“You just let yourself sit there with a broken hand? Seriously?”
“Yeah...”
“And here I was thinking Maria was the nutcase!”
I nod sheepishly and pick at the unappetizing slice of pizza.
He’s right—I’m totally crazy. I don’t even know why I hurt myself like this in the first place, and it’s a part of why I’m scared of letting Maria in. If I get close to her—even if she can handle my problems—what happens if I turn into my father someday? I don’t want to hurt her.
“So if you didn’t want help, why’d you go with Maria?” asks Craig, thankfully interrupting my thoughts before they went too far into the dark.
“She convinced me,” I whisper, looking down at the pomegranate still sitting out on the table. Someone popped out a handful of pips and left them sitting in a pile beside it.
I bolt upright as someone bangs on the front door and cringe as my head starts throbbing painfully. Vicodin is supposed to be a painkiller, but it sure isn’t acting like one.
“Hey, I’m back!” chimes Maria from the kitchen. Her voice is light and carefree today, and even without looking, I know she’s smiling.
I gaze at her over the back of the sofa as she carries over a giant pile of papers—a present from Professor Meador—and joins me on the couch.
“Jesus, Owen!” exclaims Craig as he stares slack-jawed at the enormous stack of homework. “You have to grade all of that?”
“The title ‘Teaching Assistant,’ is just a fancy term for cheap labor,” I answer as I eye the tower of paper. This is a lot of work even for me, though, and I have no idea how I’m going to finish it all.
“Can you even do this?” asks Maria, thumbing through the papers. “Aren’t you right-handed?”
“I can probably do it with my left. Let me try.”
It’s a struggle even to grip the pen correctly, and what comes out on the paper is illegible even to me.
“Oh wow... no, that’s pretty awful,” I admit, shaking my head. There’s no way I can do this. I don’t recognize a single word on the page, and I’m the guy who wrote them.
“Well, how about this: I have class all afternoon, but what if I come back tonight and help do the writing?” offers Maria with a caring smile.
Her eyes are warm and friendly, and an incompatible mix of remorse and excitement bursts to life inside me. I’d feel terrible to waste her time grading my assignments, but I’m ecstatic that she didn’t run for the hills after last night.
“No way,” I protest, shaking my head as vigorously as my addled, aching brain will let me. “I couldn’t ask you to do that!”
“Hey, it’s not a problem,” she says, still smiling at me. “If you feel bad about it, pay me in cocoa and I’ll do it with you all night if you want!”
Craig bursts out laughing, and Maria looks up at him confused. I groan and press my face into my good hand. Even in college, we’re still just a bunch of children sometimes.
“What’s so... eew!” gasps Maria as she finally gets it. Her face turns red as she covers her mouth with her hands and bursts out laughing.
“If you’re up for grading papers,” I say, turning and glaring at Craig as I annunciate clearly, “then I am absolutely up for making cocoa!”
“Sure,” she agrees happily, sounding almost excited at the prospect, and she hops up off the couch. “I’ll call you after I get out of lab, okay?”
“Works for me!” I answer happily, and I catch Craig making faces at me out of the corner of my eye.
“Hey Maria?” I call after her just as she’s about to leave.
“Yeah?”
She looks over her shoulder at me from the doorway. Her eyes glow with life today, and the winter wind
blows her long black hair out around her as it rushes into the kitchen. I wish I had the balls to get up and kiss her right here and now.
“Thanks,” I stammer awkwardly. “I really mean it. Thank you so much.”
Her smile is warm and intimate, and for a brief second, I’m nervous as I wonder what she’s thinking.
“You’re welcome, but it’s really no problem at all. I’m looking forward to it.”
The door closes and she’s gone.
Saturday, March 2 – 7:00 PM
Maria
The sky is black and the air freezing cold by the time I get out of lab and start the long journey from the far eastern edge of campus to my apartment back across the west bridge. It’s a forty-minute walk at its easiest, and the ice on the dark sidewalk isn’t doing me any favors tonight. My hands and toes are numb within fifteen minutes, and I haven’t even made it to the steep hill down to west campus yet.
Freezing cold or not, I’m excited about tonight. I’m going to Owen’s apartment tonight to help him grade homework! It might not sound very exciting—Tina certainly didn’t think it was—but it’s safe and relaxing. I’ll be comfortable and be able to talk to him without getting too nervous. ‘Safe’ is exactly what I need right now.
I take tiny, precarious steps down the slick sheet of ice coating the west campus hill and then trudge back up the opposite side to the bridge. The thick pines give way to the gorge, and the wind howls through the open air, chilling me to the bone. By the time I make it across, my nose feels as brittle as an icicle.
I can’t wait to see Owen. I imagine the warmth of his apartment as I trudge down the steep slope to our apartment complex, getting out of these soaking wet shoes, and taking off this uncomfortable, scratchy hat. Maybe he’ll make cocoa.
Maybe I’ll be brave enough to touch him again.
The porch light is on when I get to his apartment, and I hardly have to wait at all for Owen to open the door after I ring the bell. I really like that he was waiting for me.
“Hi Maria!” he gushes happily as he invites me in. “Thanks so much for helping me grade all this crap.”
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