I bump his arm with my shoulder. “To being scarred but not broken.”
His focus returns to me, and with a hint of a smile on his full lips, he echoes, “Scarred but not broken.”
I’m envious of the way Donovan knows himself. How he’s confident in who he is and takes unapologetic ownership of his past. I wish some of that would rub off on me.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I murmur, “How do you do it?”
For a moment he simply stares at me, his eyes focused on my mouth, before shifting back to my eyes. “Do what?”
“Tell people.” I sigh with an awkward wave of my hand and feeling like a moron, because I asked like he should be able to read my mind. “With your past and everything... you just said it. No hesitation. No apology. Just... ‘Hey, here’s my fucked up past. Deal with it.’”
“Secrets can only hurt you if they’re kept a secret,” he states simply, then an annoyed expression washes across his features. “What I mean is... if everyone knows, it can’t be used against you. Also, I’ve found that if you tell people just enough of your fucked up life, they think that’s all there is and stop digging.”
I snort, thinking about how deep a person would have to dig to get the full scope of my fucked up life. Hell, even I don’t know all of it, and it’s my life!
It never occurred to me to offer up some of my story as a way to keep people from learning more. I consider how much I’m willing to give up-- how much I can live with strangers knowing about me. “So what you’re telling me is, if people knew that my mother is dead and my father is in prison for attempted kidnapping, that should be enough fucked-up-ness for one person, and no one will think there’s anything more.”
“For a normal person, yeah, that should be enough fucked-up-ness,” he replies in a thoughtful way, as if he’s weighing whether any more details are necessary.
This part of Donovan always amuses me. The way he disregards the why of something, because, in his eyes, it’s unnecessary to solving the problem.
He seems to realize what he’s done, and quickly adds, “Callie, you don’t have to tell anyone anything. You don’t owe anyone your story. Just because I did it, doesn’t mean you have to.”
“I know.” I release a quick breath, my stomach twisting inside, “but you’re right. The longer I’m the mysterious new girl, the more people will want to dig… and they can’t know the whole truth. I don’t think I could take that. I’d rather people know my mother’s dead and my father’s in prison, than know… everything else.”
“You don’t have to advertise it,” he replies, his eyes narrowing as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. “If someone asks, which they will, tell them as bluntly as possible. Make it clear that you don’t give a shit that anyone knows. It’ll still get around. Rumors will pop up. You’ll get dumb fucking questions about it, but no one will think there’s anything else. You’ll just be another girl with fucked up parents.”
I can do that-- I think.I stand tall and square my shoulders, determined to take control of my narrative.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Don’t worry about it. People are dumb. Manipulating them is easy.” Donovan shrugs with a nonchalance that I can tell he doesn’t fully feel, and looks away. He may not care about the why of something, but the how matters to him a great deal.
Earlier, I was worried he’d ask for the details he clearly wants, and I’m deeply touched that he’s doing his best to give me the time and space I need. Gently, I tug on his jacket sleeve, so he’ll look at me again. His expression is tense, his internal struggle painted across his features.
“Someday I’ll tell you the whole story, I promise,” I whisper, meeting his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s only… talking about it means reliving it, and I can’t. Not right now.”
His tense expression turns into a full scowl, as he grumbles, “It’s… fine. Just, if something bothers you, say it. We’re not fucking mind readers.”
I can’t help but bust up laughing, as it occurs to me that his struggle is more than his frustration due to lack of answers. “All this talking about emotional stuff is killing you right now, isn’t it?”
“You have no idea,” he mutters, pursing his lips.
I laugh even harder, until my stomach growls loudly, coffee no longer enough to hold me.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m in need of food,” I announce the obvious with a teasing smile. “Time to brave the English breakfast.”
He nods and we make our way toward the front door.
“I’m not eating the broiled tomatoes,” he announces, his grumpy face still in full force. “I don’t even like fresh tomatoes. If they’re not in a sauce, they’re not worth eating.”
I’m indifferent to tomatoes, but when he’s like this, I can’t help but tease him.
“How can you not like tomatoes?” I gasp theatrically. “Not even the cute little garden tomatoes you put in salads?”
His grimace turns into a devilish smirk, and pulling his hand from his pocket, he gestures down his body. “What part of this says that I eat a lot of salads?”
The image of him this morning, shirtless and underneath me, runs through my brain, and I can already feel heat once again burning across my cheeks.
