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“If you sit behind me, I can see you and it might help. Also, your voice.” We both sit.
“My voice?” He raises his eyebrow at me in the reflection of the mirror.
“It helps. My brain recognizes your voice and it makes me less anxious,” I explain.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jesse
My voice helps her… I don’t know why that statement stuns me, but I can’t fathom that I could have such an impact on someone. All my life I have been brushed aside and forgotten, but now I can be someone’s comfort. I always want to be that person for her.
“Start at the bottom and work your way up, in case it tangles,” she instructs, walking me through how to brush her hair. Her tone is formal, and serious even, as if taking away the personal aspect of this act will help her get through it easier.
I’ve never done this before and I’m not sure why I thought I should try, aside from how much I enjoy it when she touches my hair. It’s a small form of physical connection, but it’ll be ours.
I ease the brush through her waves, afraid that I’ll hurt her if I tug too hard. Glancing ever so often into the mirror to make sure she’s okay, I catch her eyes studying me. I’m not sure that she’s blinked. As if she’s afraid that closing her eyes even for a second will ruin this.
“When’s the last time someone brushed your hair?”
“My mom did it when I was little.” Her small voice doesn’t sound frightened, but she doesn’t sound like her normal self either.
“Do you want me to stop?” I pause brushing, maintaining eye contact in the mirror. She blinks a few times as if she was in a trance then shakes her head.
“I’m okay, I promise.” She gives a small smile, urging me on. I brush through the long strands, smoothing them down her back until I’m sure there aren’t any knots. Then I keep brushing for a few more minutes since she seems content.
“The first-grade teacher I told you about, Miss Carlisle. She had dark black, curly hair. It was shorter, above her shoulders, but the ringlets would bounce when she taught and it mesmerized me. She always wore a red headband, or earrings, and red lipstick. Reminds me of you and your yellow,” I tell her, thinking of all the dresses I’ve seen her wear at work.
“The kids like it when I wear yellow. I started buying a lot of it subconsciously until one day I realized it was my entire work wardrobe.” She laughs, “I’m not even a huge fan of the color, but I do like yellow flowers.”
“Your favorite color is green, then?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?” She looks bewildered.
“Your furniture for one thing and I’ve seen you wear green when you run.” I shrug, trying to play it off like I haven’t been obsessively observing every detail of her life.
“And, your eyes.” She smiles sweetly as she says it.
Not only am I flattered, but her approval makes me want to jump her. I want to bury my hands in her thick blonde hair and kiss her senseless.
“What’s your favorite color?” She asks before I have a chance to do something I’ll regret like touching her without permission. She eyes me suspiciously in the mirror now, waiting for my response. She seems surprised that I’ve been paying such close attention to her.
“I like your yellow skirts.” I wink, making her blush. “Or, maybe that shade of pink.” I point to her cheeks in the mirror. “Or, the blue of your eyes,” I add, meaning each one of my responses.
“You’re too much.” She giggles, shaking her head at me. “I believe every word you say so easily… I’m afraid you’re going to break my heart,” she whispers, surprising me.
I’m not sure what to say to make her understand how committed I am to this without making her run for the hills. I would rather die than ever hurt her.
We gaze at each other in the reflection of the mirror, her small frame dwarfed by mine. She’s the most precious thing in this world to me already. Nothing else seems like it matters.
“Your heart is safe with me, I promise,” I tell her as genuinely as I can, hoping it’s enough for now.
“Okay,” she whispers, smiling gently.
“Okay.” I smile back, before setting the brush down that I’ve been holding. “Can I braid it?”
“You know how to braid?” She asks skeptically.
“I’ve braided a shit ton of paracord, can’t be much different than hair.” I shrug, cracking my neck like I’m preparing for a wrestling match.
