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It occurred to me that I trusted Elliot as much as I had ever trusted anyone before. Hell, maybe more.
I’d watched his every action for five entire weeks. I’d seen him frustrated, and tired, and angry—well, as close to angry as he ever got. Which wasn’t very angry.
I’d seen how he reacted with his closest friends, and with people he didn’t know, and with an infuriating toddler.
I knew him, and he was good.
Really, really good.
I trusted Sab. She was my best friend, and I loved her like crazy.
But… I trusted Elliot more. With the hard things, the painful things. He was strong enough that I didn’t think even the worst of the horrors I had survived would scare him away.
So I took his hand. “I’m not holding your hand to be romantic,” I told him. “I’m holding your hand so you have something to squeeze when you get angry. If at any moment, you want me to stop talking, just say the words. What I went through wasn’t something I want to share, but I feel like you deserve to know. And like I can trust you. I’ve never given anyone the details, but… it might be nice to have someone know.”
He squeezed my hand lightly, and didn’t say anything. I knew he didn’t want to push me; I could see it in his eyes.
Elliot’s arm brushed mine as I spoke. Recounting the situation was awful, but something about it felt sort of healing, too.
And when the memories made my eyes water, he didn’t wrap his arms around me until he’d asked if he could hold me.
And when he held me, the terrors I had survived felt… not okay. They would never be okay.
But they felt like the past.
And in the moment, I felt safe.
And that was what mattered.
