by Carian Cole
“That’s part of it.”
I’ve never felt more unwanted than I do right now. And that’s saying a lot.
“What’s the other part?”
He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “Let’s not do this, okay?”
“No. I think we should talk. Please…” I can’t possibly let this conversation go. It will eat at me and eat at me, and I won’t sleep for days, wondering about every little word and detail.
“Holly, look at me. Look at you. I look like someone beat me with a whole lotta ugly, sugar.” He turns, but all I see is a beautiful man who finally trusts me enough to not hide behind hair hanging over half his face anymore.
“I don’t see anything wrong with you. You’re perfect.”
“You’re blind. I’m a fucking mess, inside and out. And you? You’re gorgeous, but I think on the inside you’re a still a little bit messed up too, and I’ll only make you worse. We had proof of that a few days ago. You deserve better. You need better.”
“I don’t. I need you.”
He shakes his head back and forth. “It’s just wrong for us. Trust me.”
I wonder how long he’s felt this way. I’ve been daydreaming about him more and more. Not to the graphic degree that he described, but in my own way. I’ve been hoping he would kiss me again, now that I know what to expect.
“Ty…do you think I don’t want to be touched? Do you think I don’t want you to touch me? Am I disgusting to you?” My voice rises in pitch. “Because of what happened to me? And because of how I reacted the other day?”
“No. None of that. I’m just not the right guy for you.”
He says it right to my face, his beautiful blue eyes drilling into mine, but I don’t think he believes his words any more than I do.
“Isn’t that for me to decide?”
He gives me his lopsided grin. “I’m not the prince on the white horse, Holly. I’m just a fucked-up ugly loser on an old beat-up motorcycle.”
“You’re not any of those things,” I say. “What if you are the right guy?”
His head shakes back and forth. “I’m not. Not for you. Probably not for anyone.”
Hearing him say that rips my heart apart, and tears spill down my cheeks as my entire body trembles and I start to sob uncontrollably. “Why not?” I beg.”What’s wrong with me? And why do you think something’s wrong with you?”
He stands and pulls me up with him. “Holly…I don’t want you getting this upset. No more talking. Come on.” He takes my hand again, and I follow him into the house, where he sets me on the couch, kneels in front of me, and takes off my shoes.
“Lie down,” he whispers, and when I do, he pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and gently places it over me. “You’re beautiful.” His fingers trace the curve of my jaw. “And you’re perfect. You deserve all the love in the world.” His scratchy voice is soft, oddly soothing, caressing my soul and seeping into the deep cracks that threaten to break me. I wish he would let his walls down and let this sweet side show more often. I know in my heart this side is the man he was meant to be.
“I only want your love,” I whisper.
“You have my love,” he whispers back. “It’s just not enough.”
He’s wrong. How could love not be enough?
“I want you to rest here with me, and we’ll talk about all this later when you’re calmer. I won’t let you cry here, Holly. This is where we’re safe, with the trees and the squirrels and the birds and Boomer and Poppy. Nobody hurts us here.” His hand strokes my head, and his lips brush lightly across my cheek. I want to reach for him and pull him down under the blanket with me, feel his warm, strong body wrapped around mine, and stay here with him forever.
Instead, he sits on the floor, leaning his back against the front of the couch, his head near mine, and opens a book to read while I rest. Poppy has jumped up on the couch to curl up on my feet, and Boomer has squished himself up into a ball on Ty’s lap.
I have no idea what love is supposed to be like, but I can’t imagine it can be any better than what we have right here. He just has to open his eyes and see it.
22
Tyler
When I step out of the bathroom, she’s awake, drinking a glass of water in the kitchen, staring out the window. I thought I’d take a shower while she was napping, and now I’m standing in this tiny space between the kitchen and the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, shirtless, with my hair wet and slicked back.
All my scars on display.
She turns, and her eyes widen when she sees me standing there watching her. I can’t tell from her expression if she’s feeling fear of being so close to a half-naked man or shock at all the scars from the burns and the glass, but there’s no way for me to hide them now, because they’re everywhere.
“I thought you were sleeping,” I say. The conversation earlier has my thoughts all over the place. I ran from it all—everything she was saying and asking and everything I was feeling and fighting—because I’m scared of hurting her, and I’m scared of losing her.
Maybe you are the right guy.
I never expected her to react the way she did. I always thought she’d clam up and run if she knew what kind of thoughts ran through my head. I never thought she’d be open to any of it, or even remotely want it.
“I woke up when I heard the water running.”
I take a deep breath. “This is what happens when you try to ride through a wall of glass windows in someone’s house,” I say, gesturing to my torso. Most of the time she acts like she doesn’t see my scars at all. “This is also why drugs are bad.”
Swallowing hard, she takes a step closer, clearly shaken. “That’s horrible. You could have died…”
“I was in the hospital for a long time. I missed my dad’s funeral.”
Her eyes brim with tears. “I’m so sorry, Ty.”
“I am too. I’ve done a lot of shitty things.”
“Just remember you’ve done a lot of good things, too.” Her voice is soft and sincere. “I’m proof of that.” Her hand raises and she touches her fingertips lightly to the scars that run down the side of my face.
I hold my breath, and I don’t move. I don’t want to do anything that will make her move away and take her soft touch with her.
“Is this… from the fire?” She breathes.
When I don’t answer, she moves her hand away, but I capture it in my own and hold onto it, gently, between us, and rub my thumb along the top of her hand.
“The fire and the glass window. I could have more plastic surgery. It might make it look a little better. But I’m afraid to get all fucked up on pills again.” I shake my head to make my hair fall over my face, but she pushes it back away.
“Don’t hide,” she says softly. “Not from me.”
With her free hand, she traces the other scars on my chest with her fingers, her eyes following as she explores each one. My chest heaves beneath her touch as I fight the urge to either hide myself from her or lean her into the kitchen counter and kiss her senseless. I lace our fingers together, and she squeezes my hand.
“I have scars, too,” she whispers, her voice shaking.
Gently, I brush my knuckles across her cheek. “Show me,” I whisper back.
Without breaking eye contact, she lets go of my hand, unbuttons the front of her sweater, and slides it off, letting it fall to the floor. A thin, cream-colored camisole barely covers her, its fabric stretching over her breasts. She steps toward the window, where the golden light of sunset casts just enough light over her for me to see her. She holds out her arms, showing me cigarette burns like the ones I’ve seen on Poppy’s ears and stomach. She bites her lip as she lifts up her camisole to show me her stomach and rib cage, and the long thin scars that slash across her, the memories of her torture etched into her flesh.
I hold my breath as her hands push the front of her jeans and panties down, and the gentleman in me wants to reach out and stop her, but its too
late—she’s already pushed her clothes down to her mid-thigh. Rage, sadness, and a primal possessiveness rocket through me when I read the word carved into the delicate skin a few inches below her belly button, right above her pubic bone:
MINE
“This is the worst one.” Her voice is weak, almost apologetic.
All of it is horrific, each scar the worst in its own right, because every one signifies a moment that a little girl was tortured, and no one should ever have to endure so much pain. Especially a child.
But the word…it is the worst. It’s a brand. It’s his sick mark on her that will never let her forget what he did to her, and that he owned her.
Fuck you, motherfucker. She was never yours. She’s mine.
“Shit, baby…” I choke on the dry ache in my throat and move to pull her clothes up before I gather her into my arms, holding her tight against me as she cries, her tears wetting my chest. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, kissing the top of her head.
Her arms slowly go around my waist, and she hugs me just as tight.
Lifting her chin up with my fingers, I gently coax her to meet my eyes again. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper. “Every part of you.”
She bursts into tears and buries her head back into my chest, hanging onto me like she’s afraid I’m going to disappear.
I lower my head and press my lips to her bare shoulder, then turn my face into her neck, breathing her in before, dragging my lips up to kiss her perfect tear-stained cheek.
“You’re not his,” I say. “Your heart, your body, every part of you is yours. And you decide who gets to touch you from now on.”
I hold her as she cries, letting her get it out, hoping it will break down more of the walls we’ve built around ourselves. This baring of souls and secrets and exposing our damages to each other is like an exorcism—expelling the demons.
When her sobs subside, without letting her go, I grab a napkin from the table and hand it to her to wipe her face.
She gazes up at me and touches my cheek, her finger caressing the grooved flesh.
“I want to be yours,” she whispers. “Please let me be.”
I can’t resist or deny it anymore. I bend down and kiss her lips, softly at first, hoping she’ll kiss me back. Her body and mouth stiffen at my touch then slowly relax against me, and her lips part, opening against mine. I cup the back of her neck with my hand and hold her gently as my tongue delves into her mouth. I tangle my fingers in her hair and tug her closer, my pulse quickening when she gasps against my lips and then sighs into my mouth. My other hand grips her thin waist and slowly travels down to her hip, pulling her against my body.
She pulls away slightly and moves her hands to rest on my chest. “I have to tell you something…”
“Anything.” I kiss the top of her head and brace myself for another blow.
“I’ve never really been kissed before.”
Relieved, I lift her chin so I can stare down into her eyes. “That’s not true anymore.” I touch my lips softly to hers once more.
A small adorable grin spreads across her face. “You’re right.” Her gaze lowers to my mouth, and I kiss her again, a little longer this time, until she pulls back.
“And…I’m a virgin. He raped me…but…not…” I capture her lips with mine, saving her from saying the words that she doesn’t need to say and I don’t need to hear.
When we part, I hold her face in my hands. “We’ll figure things out together,” I say, then I pick up her sweater and hold it for her to slip into.
Can I be good for her? I seriously don’t fucking know. The only thing I do know is I don’t know how to let her go, especially when she’s begging me to keep her.
23
Tyler
The scent of spring is in the air, carried by the warm breeze. Perched high in this tree like a bird, I can see everything from my house, in the distance, all the way down to the river. Other than that, I don’t see much, except a few squirrels.
I’m feeling a lot, though.
Laid out in my lap is a folder filled with photocopies of Holly’s file that my brother Toren got for me from a cop he’s friends with. I know I’m not supposed to see any of this, but I need to know what happened to her, without her having to go through the agony of actually telling me.
I don’t want to hear the words “rape,” “sodomy,” and “penetration” coming from her beautiful lips. Nor do I want to see the pain in her eyes as she describes starvation, psychological manipulation, and mutilation.
Our relationship is slowly becoming sensual and physical, and I want to be able to touch her, tease her, make her feel what I want her to feel, without setting off some trigger that will ruin the beauty of every moment. To help her move past horrible memories, I have to understand what she went through.
Holly is a mirage. From a distance, she is so beautiful and sweet and, at times, adorable and silly. Just a normal girl, almost unaffected. But behind that vision is a little girl with dark, sorrow-filled eyes, forever lost, waiting for the next strike, living in expectation of fear and pain. She hides it well. Like a prey animal.
In many ways, Holly walked herself right into the arms of another, much less dangerous, predator.
The lost, tear-stained, melancholy girl is my biggest weakness, my truest fantasy. I can’t resist her. When I was younger, I hid those feelings by dating someone like Wendy, a bubbly, popular, perpetually smiling cheerleader. We all saw where that got me.
Holly’s mirage will always shimmer and fade and then surface again. No amount of time or therapy is going to fix the broken parts of her. Sad, but true. And even though I tried to brainwash myself into believing otherwise, most men won’t know how to love her.
I do, though. I’m going to love all of her—the good and the bad, the smiles and the fears, the pretty and the dirty.
My cell phone beeps with a text, and I pull it out of my pocket to read it:
Toren: I’m setting some meat in the food stations tonight. There’s a missing terrier last seen in your area yesterday. Brown and white, about 20 lbs. Can you check traps in the a.m.?
Tyler: Sure
Toren: Thanks. Text me with any sightings
Tyler: Always do
Toren: How’s the file?
Tyler: Depressing
Toren: I figured. I could stop by tonight after I fill the traps. If you want to talk.
Tyler: Nah, I’m good
Toren: You gonna be an asshole forever?
Tyler: Probably
Toren: Me and Asher are riding on Sunday. Come with us.
Tyler: I’ll think about it
Toren: Don’t be a dick. And make more bracelets, we sold out of the last ones.
Tyler: You got it.
Toren: Think about the ride. You owe me ;)
I knew the file wouldn’t come without a price, and it figures Tor would use it as leverage to try to get me to hang out with him. As much as I love to ride alone, I miss riding with my brothers every Sunday (weather permitting), which was a family ritual my dad started with us and I ended.
I go over the file more times than necessary, and by the time I’m ready to close it and burn it, I’m in a sick rage and all I want to do is dig that motherfucker up, take an axe to his rotting remains, piss on him, and set him on fire.
24
Holly
I’m giddy as I pull into my parents’ driveway. I have a driver’s license. And a car. I feel a strange sense of freedom and maturity.
I wonder if this is what my parents didn’t want me to feel.
I wouldn’t have any of it without Tyler’s help. He taught me to drive, set me up with a driver’s education instructor, and helped me get the paperwork I needed. Then he surprised me with an actual car. I couldn’t believe my eyes when he drove me to it and handed me the keys with that adorable grin on his face. Without even thinking, I threw my arms around his neck, and he spun me around in a circle and kissed me right there in the dark parking lot. Everything
felt right and so very normal.
Zac’s car is also in the driveway. I haven’t seen him since the night we went to dinner, although we talk on the phone and text several times per week. I haven’t seen my parents in over a month, and when I call, they are hardly ever home. Today is Saturday and, as I recall from our talks, Zac stops by for breakfast on Saturdays occasionally.
My brother stands to give me a hug as I enter the kitchen. “You look great,” he says with a smile. “You want a bagel?”
I decline, too nervous to eat. My mother, who is sitting at the kitchen table with an elaborate spread of bagels, cream cheese, and butter, zeroes in on me and, without so much as a hello, she questions me. “Holly, how on earth did you get here? Please tell me those are not car keys in your hand?” It figures she would notice them before I have a chance to bring up this conversation on my own.
“Yes. I got my driver’s license and a car,” I answer excitedly. “It’s in the driveway.
My mother practically slams her coffee cup down on the table, making Zac and me jump. “How many times have we talked about this and decided it was best for you to wait. How did you even manage to do all that without help? And how were you able to afford a car?”
“I…” I search for the right words that won’t exacerbate my mother’s annoyance.
“I helped her,” Zac pipes up, his eyes meeting mine across the room, and I silently thank him for coming to my rescue.
My mom looks at him in disbelief. “You? Why would you do that? You know we wanted her to wait. She’s not ready to be driving around. She could get lost—”
“She’s old enough to drive, Mom. She’s not a baby.”
“She’s not like other girls her age,” she says, as if I’m not right there in the room. “She has to be more careful.”