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“Aren’t you . . . ?” He doesn’t answer my question.
“My mom saw I love art. Found drawings in my room, bought me sketchbooks and tools. I’d hear them, late at night fighting about me. She never fought him on anything. Nothing but that—me.”
“She sounds . . . amazing.”
“She is.”
I want to ask more, but that seems like a good place to end it, to close out the conversation before I’m expected to add my own experiences. When we’re quiet for a few minutes, the record cutting out but our bodies still swaying, I can’t fight the yawn that overtakes me.
“Do you think you can sleep now?” he asks. I don’t want to lie, so I don’t answer, but my body rebels from my mind, pulling another yawn from my chest. “Alright you, let's get you to bed.
I nod, and I’m shocked when his knees bend, strong arms scooping me up.
I haven’t felt small since I was a kid, except for in this moment.
I feel tiny.
Tiny and cared for.
My arms looped around his neck tighten, and he walks us to his bedroom, gently placing me on the bed, the covers already pulled back.
Tattooed fingers grab the sheets and pull them up around me.
“Night, Lola,” he says, turning toward the door, one hand grazing the blankets.
I panic.
It has to be the exhaustion or the adrenaline, but the tether that keeps my mind and actions in line snaps, and my hands go out to grab his, wrapping around his thick wrist.
His body turns back to me, confusion written on his face.
He looks from my face to my hands, both wrapped around his arm, holding him in place.
He can’t leave.
“Lola?”
“Please don’t go.” His eyes run over my face, but my mind is frantic.
I know I won’t sleep tonight, that every noise in this unfamiliar room will creep into my subconscious, will tell me horrific stories and dredge up bitter memories. “I don’t want to sleep alone. Please, Ben.” I’m pleading with him now. Any other time, I’d cringe. I’d be embarrassed.
Where is strong Lola?
Where is the Lola who protects, not who needs protecting?
Where is the Lola who comforts instead of receiving comfort?
And most of all, why do those walls crumble when he is near?
“Lola, I don’t know—”
“Please.” That’s all I say.
He doesn’t speak.
He just looks at me.
It feels like a millennium.
