I couldn’t hide it. Not anymore. Not from him. He’d thought I was the pathetic bookworm before, but what must he think of me now? Seeing me like this. A woman dissolved into a child, huddled into a ball, unable to speak.
But not unable to hear, and unfortunately the voices of my memory were loudest of all. The recording of my parents’ arguments on a station set to repeat. Over and over. Louder. Angrier.
I hugged the pillow tighter and buried my nose in the fabric.
Tate leaned forward, placing his face in my line of sight. He didn’t touch me but made sure I knew he was there.
Even like this I couldn’t forget something like that. Someone like him.
“I’m not going anywhere, Em. However long it takes, I’ll be here.”
His words both comforted and caused my heart to race with anxiety. I couldn’t do this. Wanted to, but couldn’t. How many times had I tried before? Always the results were the same. My lips were a fortress that words could not pass.
I licked my lips. Opened my mouth. But just as I’d predicted, no words. Just a squeak that sounded a lot like a little mouse.
Tate stood, but the evacuation of his presence in my personal space didn’t lessen the tightness in my chest. Didn’t allow me to breathe more easily.
Metal on metal scraped as he dragged his chair beside mine. Then he sat back down, reached an arm behind my back, and tugged me to his side. My body shifted even though it didn’t uncurl from around the pillow. My head landed on his chest, his armpit curling around the back of my neck. He didn’t say anything but started stroking swirls on the exposed skin under the hem of my sleeve.
I swallowed. Squeezed my eyes shut. Dug deep past the ghost of a scared little girl to the capable woman I knew was still in there somewhere, though my brain had tried to relegate her to a corner, and whispered, “I’m sorry.” Another tear escaped, but this time I knew where it came from. Not sadness, but embarrassment. Its twin tracked my other cheek, its nameshame.
Tate didn’t respond. Not immediately. He just kept drawing those lazy swirls on my arm. Finally, when he spoke, his voice was deep, tender. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
This time a bark of a laugh escaped. A self-deprecating, self-condemning scoff. I sniffed and swallowed, but my muscles loosened a fraction. The pillow no longer suffered from my severe death grip. “Yeah right.”
“I’m serious. You don’t have to apologize. Not to me.”
I wanted to scoot away from him. Not to put space between us, but to look into his eyes. But I was only now gaining control over my mind, my body. I was afraid any movement would send me back to the little girl huddled in her bedroom closet with her hands covering her ears.
“Especially to you. This is all my fault.” That humorless laugh again echoed around my chest. “If I weren’t so screwed up—”
He shimmied his shoulder, which jostled my head. “Hey. We’re all screwed up.”
I could hear the smile in his voice and was surprised when my own lips curved at the sound.
His lips pressed a kiss into my hair, and a few seconds of silence followed. “What happened?”
Same words, different question.
I wanted to tell him, but could I? Would my body cooperate? Would my mouth form words? My tongue spit them out?
I focused on a chip in the mason work on the side of our brick building. Maybe if I didn’t look at him. Maybe I could do it. Say it. Finally.
I pressed my lips together. Bit them. Clenched my teeth, then released. “I don’t do conflict.” It was a start. I tightened my grip on the pillow again, dug my nails into the fabric. “Whenever there is a hint of friction, I hightail it out of there as fast as I can. Ignore it. Bury it. Do everything I can to erase it.”
“Read.” His voice held a note of enlightenment.
“Sometimes.” Most times. Although reading wasn’t just my escape from arguments. I read for enjoyment, to de-stress, to learn. But yes, also to escape.
The sound of traffic from the roads below filled the silence that stretched between us. A silence not taut with tension but heavy with the patience rolling off Tate in comforting waves. He waited, and I knew he’d told the truth. No matter how long it would take me, he’d be here. Not rushing, not cajoling, not supplying the words for me. Just being…present.
“My parents argued a lot when I was young. Alot.” I shrugged, maybe to try to make light of it, maybe just to prove to myself I could? A lot of kids grew up with parents who fought. All a part of relationships, right? All a part of divorce. But I’d never known anyone who completely shut down at the slightest hint of contention. I was embarrassed by my actions, wanted to minimize the impression they’d made on Tate. “I don’t know. Like I said, I’m screwed up.”
He pulled me closer. “You’re not screwed up, but I get it.”
Off the hook. Tate was letting me off the hook. He wasn’t going to ask me to wade through all the muck and mire, to put words to all my thoughts and feelings. I could kiss him for his kindness. It had taken everything to push past the walls and verbalize what little I had. My brain and emotions felt like they had after taking the SATs in high school. Total and utterly drained. Spent. Exhausted.
I reached across my body and patted his hand on my arm. “Thank you.” Then even though his chest was more comfortable than my plush pillow and I wanted nothing more than to snuggle down, close my eyes, and drift off to sleep with the scent of his aftershave hovering around me, I pushed off his chest and met his eyes for the first time that night. “I should probably head to bed.”
