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“It’s just me. Don’t stress,” I say calmly and evenly. He laughs humorlessly but doesn’t smile. He mumbles something that sounds like “just you”.
“I’ve been a dick to you, sorry…a jerk to you. For a long time.” His words come out slowly. He keeps his eyes focused solely on mine. I feel so much heat under the intensity of his gaze, but I can’t look away. “It was…always undeserved. And I’m sorry. There is no excuse,” He finishes tightly but he doesn’t look away. I stare back at him; my mouth slightly parted as I try to breathe evenly.
I finally take a bigger breath and say, “Please don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” He insists. “Not at all. I just…didn’t know how…how else to…” He says in a strained voice. I can immediately tell that he is not used to talking about his feelings, or maybe even anything serious with anyone. I think back to high school and I know that he never spoke up in class. He never initiated conversations with his friends. He honestly just never really spoke, except for the occasional rude comments that were usually directed at me.
“I always wanted to talk to you, but I never knew…or I didn’t…know how to…” He keeps trying to form his words. I realize that my hand is still on his knee and I take it off, holding it in my other hand. I look up at him again and try to smile at him encouragingly. “I….” He stops talking again and takes a deep breath. “I like you, Madeline. I have since the minute you spoke to me. But I don’t…I don’t know how…to talk…or express…how I….”
“You have a hard time talking to people about how you feel?” I ask quietly, gently. My head is spinning and my heart is for sure about to explode, I’m sure of it.
“I have a hard time talking to people, period,” He says tightly. He looks away and then down at his knee which starts bouncing again.
I like you, Madeline. I like you, Madeline. I like you, Madeline.
“You never hated me?” I whisper. He looks back at me. His brown eyes threaten to make me come undone.
“Never.”
TWELVE
ELLIOT, NOW
“So, you were shot?” She asks, trying to keep up with the memory I am sharing with her as I arrange the little table next to her bed, moving her water closer to her and adjusting the vase of small blue flowers.
“No, I cut my arm on the shelf when I tried to push you out of the way and shield you.” I stop to pull up the sleeve of my long sleeve shirt to show her the very faded, tiny, and thin scar on my forearm. I remember looking at the cut, then scab, then scar and being so appreciative for it and what it stood for. It signifies the moment that everything changed between us.
She looks at the scar for a minute then she lifts her good hand and lightly traces the length of it with her finger. My skin burns where she touches me and I hope she doesn’t see the goosebumps. She then sees the tattoo on my wrist. It is a small outline of a heart, about the size of my thumbnail. She touches that softly too.
“You have one too, on your other wrist.” I say quietly. She looks at me in shock and her giant green eyes get even bigger.
“I have a tattoo?” She gasps. She looks down at her other arm that is wrapped in the cast and secured in the sling. She says something under her breath that sounds like ‘my parents are going to kill me’. I want to remind her they already know, but I know now is not the right time.
“Did you know that I have a tattoo, Ana?” She calls. Ana stands up and comes over to the other side of the bed.
“Yes, pollito.” She laughs. “You were so proud of yourself afterwards. You called me to show me.”
“That must have hurt,” She ponders.
“You barely flinched. You were so brave,” I tell her. She looks at me.
“I’ve never heard you talk so much,” She says quietly. I want to say, You’re the one that I talk to the most. I’m able to talk to others now because of you. But I bite my tongue. “You have a nice voice.”
My heart falters for a minute before it starts pounding again. I smirk at her. “Thank you.”
She blushes and it is the most adorable and beautiful thing. “I’m sure I’ve said that before?”
“Yes.” I smile at her.
“You have a nice smile too,” She says, her face remains straight and unmoving.
I only smile because of you.
Ana breaks the tense silence by saying, “I feel like I’m back in freshman year with all of the sexual tension in this room right now.”
“Ana,” I scold, glaring at her. I am worried about making Mads uncomfortable.
“I’m just saying!” She insists. “Dios mío.”
