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His elbows rest on his jean-clad knees, and he hangs his head, quiet. He doesn’t look up.
I almost turn and leave. I need space. He needs space. Right now, anyway.
I don’t, though. I step in and close the door.
Slowly, I walk over to him and stand in front of him, waiting. Maybe for him to make a move or for him to lash out and storm out the door, but I’m not leaving for months yet. He can’t get away from me.
When he doesn’t make a move to escape, I hold out my hand and lightly graze his soft, dark hair.
He immediately clutches it in his own and nuzzles his head into
it.
I let out a breath.
Kneeling down, I come in and circle my arms around his waist and lay my head on his chest, hugging him. I wish I knew what he wanted. I wish I trusted him, and I wish he trusted me.
Friends is a better way to start. Can we go back?
His arms hang limply at the side, and while he lets me hug him, he doesn’t hug me back. I let go, letting him have his space.
Looking up at him, he doesn’t meet my eyes. He pinches my shirt, staring at it. At Noah’s T-shirt.
“It’s okay,” I tell him softly. “I didn’t do anything with Noah.” I glide my hands down his arms. “I’m not going to…”
My right hand comes to his right hand, and I notice he’s holding something in it. I stop, bringing it up and taking the piece of wood from his fist.
“What is this?” But it doesn’t even take a second to realize exactly what it is.
The blue-green leg of my chest I painted with gold accents. I turn it around in my hand, my heart pumping so hard that a cool sweat breaks out on my forehead.
“What happened?” I dart my eyes up to his, breathing hard. “What did you do?”
Tears spring to my eyes, and I drop the leg, running to the door. No. I race from the bathroom, down the stairs, pain and anger curdling in my stomach as I bolt into the shop. The frigid air hits me as I see the bay door open, and I leap down the stairs, into the shop, and spin around, frantically searching for my chest. My first piece. The one he helped me design.
And all at once, it’s not there, and I see the barrel outside in the snowy driveway, spitting fire, remnants of the colored wood I painted sticking out of the top.
My hands shoot to my head, everything going blurry in front of me as silent sobs wrack through me.
No.
I stand at the open door, watching sparks fly into the black night and any traces of my piece quickly deteriorate into the barrel. My hair blows across my face, and I cover my eyes with my hands, unable to stand the sight of it.
But in my head, all I see are my stupid, kid drawings in the trash.
Stupid, stupid… I cry into my hands.
The stairs creak behind me, and I clench my teeth, wanting to kill him. I want to hurt him. Why would he do that?
Spinning around, I head over to the wall in my bare feet and grab a pipe from the collection of parts. When I turn around, he’s there within reach. I raise the pipe like a baseball bat, glaring at him, and ready to kill him. I’m done. I can’t take anymore.
I swing, but instead of smashing his head, I slam the fucking steel into the bookshelf I finished today. The side splinters, giving way, and I’m gone. Lost in my rage, I beat the fucking piece—slamming the bat as hard as I can into the sides, on the top, and moving to the desk I started a few days ago, too.
“You can’t hurt me!” I scream. “There’s nothing you can take from me! I don’t care about anything. I’m nothing!” I growl, destroying everything I made and beating it as hard as I want to beat him, because this is it. Now he fucking knows there’s nothing he can do to me. There’s nothing anyone can do to me. No one gets that power anymore. No one matters.
I cry, covering it with another growl. No one.
I’m stronger than you. There’s nothing you can do to me.
