She knows exactly who she is, and she wants to take up space, but she does it in this quiet, tentative way like she isn’t sure how.
She spends a disproportionate amount of time worrying about whether she’s good or bad, and if whatever she is, is enough for other people.
And I don’t think she’s very nice to herself.
“When did I laugh?” I press my thumb into her skin.
Sloan blinks, letting her eyes stay closed. Her voice breaks when she speaks, I feel tears splash against my hand, and she bats at her other cheek. “When I was counting on the stairs.”
“I like when you count,” I tell her.
It’s true. I like everything about her.
She opens her eyes, rolls them like she doesn’t quite believe me, before giving a small shake of her head. “It’s weird.”
“It’s not weird.” I try to grin at her, angling my head down so my mouth can brush the shell of her ear. “Do you think the Sumerian’s thought it was weird when they invented the abacus back in 2700 BC?”
She pulls away, but I think the corners of her mouth tilt with a smile. “There’s archaeological evidence for the abacus in more than one civilization, you know.”
“I do now.” I give her a wry look, and she does try to smile, but those beautiful full lips can’t quite pull themselves into a straight line. “What’s this about, Sloan?”
Shoulders curve inward, and she shrinks. I hate when Sloan shrinks. I want her to take up the same amount of space in every room that she takes up in me.
She taps her fingers together in quick succession. I count this time. Two sets of three. She shakes her head before stretching out her hands, finally turning to face me. She blinks, blue eyes wide, tears glittering, frozen on the surface and ready to fall.
They start when she finally speaks.
“I don’t know why I do it. It’s just ... comforting, sometimes.”
“I don’t really care why you do it.” I give a jerk of my chin, reaching forward and tucking her hair behind her ear. “Does it matter?”
It doesn’t matter to me. If it’s something she takes comfort in, something she needs for whatever reason, I’ll count with her everyday for the rest of my life.
I’ll learn new languages, and I’ll tell her all the numbers in those, too.
She swallows, fingers rolling over each other, twisting into knots before she drops them on her thighs and takes an inhale, like she’s bracing for some deep truth. “My therapist ... they think I have undiagnosed ... something.”
“Who doesn’t?” I try to make her smile, but it falls flat, and I think a spurt of blood from the open wound I tore in my own chest when I laughed earlier splatters all over her pristine bedding.
“I guess it makes sense,” she says, shrugging and turning inward again, like she’s trying to offer herself acceptance but she can’t really figure out how it fits. “I’ve never really liked my brain. It makes sense that it’s ... off.”
“I like your brain.” I lean forward, wrapping my hands around her wrists and pulling her to my lap. She folds in easily, arms twining around my back like she wanted to be there the whole time. “I like you,” I whisper into the crook of her neck, mouth brushing along her skin.
“That makes one of us.”
I fucking hate that.
I want her to see herself the way I see her.
The way I saw her that first night—entirely alight in that arena. More beautiful than anything I’d ever seen.
The way I see her now. Smarter—softer—funnier than most people, with this weird stubborn streak cutting through it all.
Little gold.
My arms tighten around her, and I inhale. “Is there a particular way you like to count?”
“I guess groups of three are the most common?” Her fingers paint across my shoulder blades, her face nestles into my chest. “One, two, three. One, two, three. Or sometimes it’s all the way to six.”
