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“Ben?” My voice is hoarse and thick.
“Yeah, Mik?”
“I don’t - I don’t want to be alone.” The words disappear from me and his fingers still on my skin as my breathing hitches.
“I’ll stay on the couch.” He resumes the steady back and forth of his fingertips and my body, still aching with ghosts of pain, releases its tension.
“Thank you.”
Eventually, I pull away from him and Ben watches as I wipe my eyes.
He moves slowly, brushing the curls away from my tearstained cheeks, his fingers lingering for just a moment too long as my eyes close, before pulling his hand away and pushing up from our spot against my door. He guides me with him when he moves, helping me to my feet as he smiles softly and I lean into him. He wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me tight against his side, as he unlocks the door and leads me to my couch.
Every step threatens to shake more tears from me.
Every creak of the floorboards beneath us threatens to expose my cracks.
I curl into myself almost immediately once I’m seated, and the questions I know Ben quashed earlier seem to push themselves to the surface once more.
His eyes burn with an intensity I have never seen and his hands clench into fists and then uncurl over and over again. As he watches me wrap my arms around myself, trying and failing to cover the tear of my dress and making myself as small as I can, he runs his hands over his face and takes a seat beside me.
I can feel the way his blood is boiling and his mind is racing with each passing second and I stare at the nothingness ahead of me.
“Mik.” His voice is barely a whisper. “Are you okay?”
I want to tell him I’m fine; that everything is going to be okay and that this is nothing, because really, considering everything I’ve seen before, thisisnothing. But when I open my mouth to speak there’s nothing that comes out. There’s nothing I can say.
This isn’t okay.
Iam not okay.
“I don’t know,” I admit. I’m tired and I’m cold. “I’m cold.”
Ben
Her voice is so small and her eyes are empty.
Without speaking I get to my feet and move to the bathroom adjacent to the living room and twist the taps over the tub that sits beneath the window. I grab a bottle, something luxurious by the looks of it, and empty half of it into the steaming water. Immediately, the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle mists in the air and I move to the small basket in the corner. I grab a towel and hang it on the rack beside the sink before making sure that everything is just right.
Every step I take is automatic, just as they were years ago when I did this very thing for Mom - helping her wash away whatever horrors had just existed.
After a few minutes I make my way back to the living room and move back to her side, crouching down before her.
She’s laying on her side, her arms tight around herself and tracks of tears staining her cheeks.
“Hey,” I whisper as her eyes open and my fingertips stroke her cheek. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
She gives a tired nod and pushes to her feet.
I take her hand carefully in my own and lead her to the bathroom.
The tub is half filled with suds and bubbles, and steam clouds the mirror and window.
A pocket of laughter bursts in her chest as she watches the suds rise and the steam dance and I hold onto her with my thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. Cautiously, I cock my head to the side and look at her, still standing with one arm wrapped around herself, the tear in her dress exposing more of her chest as she giggles.
“It’s not that I don’t want to hear you laughing.” I watch her carefully. “But what’s so funny?”
Mikaela takes a shaky breath, her laughter slowing as she registers the concern barely hidden in my eyes.
