Silence follows. I try the handle again, but it’s definitely locked.
“Please open the door,” I plead.
Seconds pass. The door remains locked. My throat is suddenly clogged. I try to swallow, but it fails to shift the lump lodged there.
“Please,” I whisper in a shaky voice. “Don’t shut me out.”
Pressing my forehead to the door, I take a few deep breaths.
“I heard about the parole meeting.”
Still no answer.
I can almost taste the fury when I think of the possibility of his uncle walking the streets as a free man. One day, I hope Arkin will feel strong enough to tell me his story, but until then, I’ll love the broken parts of him. The scared parts. The parts he wants to hide from me.
“Let me hold you,” I beg, digging my forehead into the wood to the point of pain. “Let me be there for you.”
Let me love you.
Nothing.
After what feels like hours of me pleading with him to open the door, I turn around and slide down until my ass hits the floor. My legs stretch out, and I stare at the ceiling to stop the tears from falling, but they soon trek down my cheeks unhindered.
I hate the thought of Arkin alone and upset. Scared of the future. A future that should make him feel safe. The worst is over and now is his time to thrive and rebuild what was broken in the night.
Helplessness and rejection weigh heavily on my shoulders. I want to do more. Be more.
But most of all, I just want him to let me in.
At some point,after the sun sets, I drag my ass to bed and collapse on top of my sheets. Restless dreams haunt me that night, and I wake several hours later when soft fingers graze my cheek.
“Hey,” I say in a croaky, sleep-heavy voice as I shift into a sitting position.
Arkin stands there in his gray joggers, his sky-colored eyes uncertain in the dim light.
Without speaking a word, he asks for permission to be around me again. To be let into my world.
I check the time. 2.37 A.M.
“Do you want to go somewhere?” I ask.
His answering nod is barely visible in the dim light. I get out of bed, swiping the car key and cap from my desk. Arkin follows me outside. We tiptoe downstairs. The house is quiet except for the creaky floorboards. As we enter the balmy night, I carefully shut the door behind us. Arkin is already halfway to the car when I make my way down the front steps.
Minutes later, I’m backing out of the drive. The roads are quiet this late at night. The radio is on, but I’m not paying attention to what song is playing because Arkin has his hand in mine and everything is finally alright again. To think he can tear me apart and then glue me together again effortlessly should frighten me, and I guess it does in a way. But now as we’re driving down the dark, empty road, while Arkin reaches out to stroke his fingers through the curls at my nape, the fear is a distant memory.
If only I could exist in this moment forever.
A smile plays on my lips. I can feel it.
And when I glance at him, the dimples in his cheeks deepen.
We don’t need words. Why? Because his fingers on the back of my neck speak their own language as they trail through the kinks peeking out from beneath my backward cap.
“Promise me something,” I say, removing his hand from my neck to kiss his knuckles.
Of course he remains silent, and that’s okay. I like his silence.
It wraps around me like a warm blanket, stirring my soul as it whispers between us.
