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There’s no denying it. Now that I’ve gotten to know him, I’m a goner. I feel everything so deeply, I always have. The hopelessness and loneliness have been at the forefront these last six years, but I’m exhausted. I want to enjoy this experience while it lasts even if there is an expiration date.
If it all comes to a halt eventually, I’ll still cherish what I have right now. He’s everything that I’ve ever dreamed of and more. Kind, gentle, and understanding. He’s defended me and protected me without expecting anything in return. He’s capable of so much, especially after all he’s gone through in his life.
My attraction to him is almost painful. I never knew the mere sight of someone could make my insides hot, but here we are.
My eyes trace across the strong muscles of his back wishing my fingers could do the same.
Why can’t they?
Deep breath, I can do this.
Flexing my fingers to psyche myself up, I start at his hair where I know it’s safe, slowly running them over the strands that I memorized last night. It’s freshly dried and soft, I can’t help imagining him in my bathroom taking a shower. Thinking of him standing under the water spray with rivulets of soap running down his body makes me lose my breath.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a minute to restore my equilibrium and before I realize what I’m doing, my fingers have trailed down to his neck. I pause, taking in the feel of his smooth skin.
Another deep breath. I can do this.
Tracing the skin across his shoulder blades and down his spine is a slow battle, my mind struggling to accept that I can do it. The pressure is light, and I’m not even applying the whole pad of my pointer finger, but I feel it. I feel him.
The blankets stop my downward trajectory, directing me over to his hip and back up his side, where I feel a scar. It’s too dim in here to see it clearly, but if I look closely, I can tell there’s a slight discoloration to his skin. My fingertip lingers on it, memorizing it.
“It’s from shrapnel. I was too close to a car bomb,” he whispers into the quiet room, surprising me. I didn’t have any clue that he was awake.
I don’t respond, not wanting to stop my momentum. Instead, I resume outlining his back until my finger runs across another indentation.
“Grazed by a bullet.”
My heart skips a beat, but I keep going. I trace his skin until I’m certain I’ve touched every inch of his exposed backside. When I reach a smooth patch just to the left of his spine on his lower back, I pause again, memorizing it.
“I fell down some wooden stairs at one of my group homes,” he whispers, somberly.
“How old were you?” I whisper back to him in the still-darkening room, the sun is nearly set now, only leaving a faint orange glow on the ceiling.
“12.” My heart breaks. Poor, sweet Jesse.
“Were there any good homes?” I ask, hoping he had even a small piece of good in all of the bad. He turns his head to look at me and I’m struck by how handsome he is.
The sleepiness that lingers makes him look softer but it doesn’t distract from the angular jawline that I can’t wait to be brave enough to touch or the temptation of his lips.
“One of my foster homes wasn’t horrible. I was fifteen and placed with an old woman. She made me do a shit ton of yard work, housework, you name it, but I had my own room and she fed me for every meal. I was there for almost nine months until she died. I found her cold in her bed, she passed in her sleep.” I gasp, but he continues.
“After that, I was in a youth shelter until I turned 18. Then I enlisted.” He speaks as if it was no big deal, but I can only imagine all the rest of the battles he fought in life before he ever even joined the military.
The pain and suffering he went through as a child is unfathomable. I still don’t understand how he could turn out so put together, so unscathed.
“I wish I knew you then. I wish I was there to hold you before I was broken, so you had someone on your side,” I confess, the guilt I feel inside eating me up.
I want to hug him so badly. How can I let my trauma keep us apart when he’s gone through the unimaginable? His doesn’t hold him back. What is wrong with me?
“I wish you were too, but it’s okay. I joined the army, found some friends, found your brother. He wasn’t much of a hugger, but he’s definitely had my back all these years. The army saved my life.” He doesn’t explain what he means by that but I have a feeling that I know exactly what he’s implying.
“I’m glad.” My hand is splayed completely on his back now, I flex my fingers slightly, taking pride in my small accomplishment.
“It’s hard to believe that I haven’t met you until now. All the years I’ve known Nathan,” he mumbles in disbelief, pulling me from my silence.
“Well, I was on the coast going to school and pretty far retreated into my shell these last few years. Nathan swears that it was a coincidence that he built his cabin so near to where I landed my job, but part of me thinks he felt guilty. We missed out on a lot of years after my dad died. He went straight into the military and I was home with a grieving mother.” I think back to my high school years when I’d come home to a darkened house and my mom crying. I never knew what to do to help and I was grieving my dad, too.
“Do you resent him for leaving?”
