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“Because you trust me,” he responded with a huge megawatt smile.
“I don’t trust anyone, Johnny,” I amended quietly, feeling my carefree mood evaporate into thin air, replaced with the familiar heaviness of despair that hung over my head like a constant rain cloud.
Johnny was silent for a long moment, obviously pondering my words.
“Because of something that happened?” he finally asked. “In your past?”
“Because of a lot of things,” was all I replied, unable and unwilling to give him more.
“Bad things?” he pressed, voice low and probing.
“Personal things,” I croaked out, not liking the sudden and serious turn this conversation had taken. I cleared my throat and then added, “Private things.”
“Things that make trusting people hard,” Johnny finally surmised, watching me carefully.
“No.” Shaking my head, I clasped my hands together tightly and exhaled a heavy breath. “Things that make trusting people impossible.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I shook my head.
“You know what they say about a problem shared,” he pressed.
“Not always,” I whispered.
He studied me for a long moment, obviously mulling over my words.
“Do you want to know what I think?” he finally asked.
“What’s that?”
“I think that you don’t want to trust anyone,” he stated, continuing to push for more. “But you trust me despite yourself.”
I opened my mouth to deny it, but stopped short, stumped on his words.
Was he right? Did I trust him?
Perhaps I did in my own peculiar way.
I mean, I trusted that he wouldn’t intentionally attempt to hurt or sabotage me. I trusted he was a good person with a kind heart and a beautiful mind.
But everything else? The scary parts? The terrifying feelings he provoked that I didn’t dare read into for fear of the unknown?
I wasn’t so sure.
“Because you can, Shannon,” Johnny’s voice broke through my thoughts. “You can trust me.” His gaze was locked on mine, his strikingly intense blue eyes burning holes inside of me. “I won’t hurt you.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I shot back defensively, feeling thrown off-kilter by his eerily accurate assessment.
“Good,” Johnny replied calmly, eyes locked on mine. “I don’t want you to be.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“I’m glad.”
Feeling incredibly exposed and vulnerable, I just sat there, unable to form a coherent sentence, as I stared back at the boy who had been throwing my heart through hoops since that very first day.
He’ll let you down, the defensive part of my brain argued. He’ll hurt you worse than all the others.
