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Tracing the sharpened planes and contours of his body, I decide to share something with him. Bare to him, I bare my soul. “When you first came to the hospital, I remember thinking you were here to save Sam.” He lowers his eyes, appearing saddened by my revelation. Placing a finger under his chin, I beckon him to look at me. “But now I know…you were here to save me.”
Tears prick his eyes as he shuts them, and nothing has ever looked more beautiful.
We don’t speak, as our silence speaks volumes. I continue tracing over his cheeks, down his sharp jaw, outlining his collarbones, before gliding my fingers down his chest. As I detour to his flank, the elegant script tattooed on his side catches my eye. I’ve never been able to read it and when he shifts, I know there’s a reason why.
I read the words over and over, not understanding what I’m seeing. There must be some mistake. My fingers clutch at his side, pleading that there is some mistake. But when his eyes pop open and nothing but guilt lies in their depths, I know I’ve at long last found the final piece to my puzzle.
My heart begins a deafening march, and I’m finding it hard to breathe. I’m suffocating—suffocating on something that I can’t explain.
“W-why do you h-have that tattooed on y-you?” My voice breaks as I point to his side. He frowns, shaking his head regrettably. “Saxon, why?” I scream when he doesn’t answer me.
The air is sour, stagnant. “You know why.” Those three words seal my fate, along with his tattoo.
Ask her if she still keeps all her kings in the backrow.
That line is fromThe Catcher in the Rye—it’s the line which brought Samuel and me together. Those words left me a love struck fool. But why does Saxon have them tattooed on him?
My mind flashes back to that exact moment, that exact moment in time when Samuel and I first met. Looking down at Saxon’s hands, I remember the flecks of dirt underneath Sam’s fingernails—just like someone would have if tinkering around under a hood.
No…it can’tbe.
I shift off of him and slump to the ground. “Lucy, please, let me explain.” Saxon raises his hands as he sits up, worry etching every corner of his face as he slips into his jeans.
“It was you?” I gasp, not needing him to draw a diagram. “It was you in the library…and not Sam, wasn’t it? It was you who gave me this?” I yank at the chain around my neck.
“Lucy…”
“Wasn’t it?” I shout, tears filling my tears.
“…Yes.”
I suddenly feel so naked. I reach for the blanket and cover myself, feeling utterly exposed and humiliated.
“Please let me explain.” He sits beside me, but I shift away.
I can’t speak, so I listen, hoping that some part of this will make sense.
“Itwasme you met in the library, not Sam. I understand how you could mistake us, especially since I didn’t correct you. You never said Sam’s name, but deep down, I knew you thought I was him.”
“But I saw the basketball inside your backpack,” I reveal, one of the reasons why I assumed he was Sam. “And you were so cocky. So Sam like.”
“I did that to impress you. I saw the way girls flocked to Sam. I was trying to mimic his confidence. And the basketball? I had Sam’s bag. It wasn’t uncommon for me to pretend I was him.”
“What?” I wheeze, as I feel there is so much more to this story.
Exhaling, he reveals, “I’ve loved you since the first moment I saw you.” He looks embarrassed by his admission. “You radiated so much warmth and sunshine. I was drawn to you. But I was a shy kid, thanks to being told I was never any good. After being told that your entire life, you start to believe it.
I used my journals as a way to express myself because I could never voice my feelings to my mom, my dad, Sam, or to tell you how I felt. Sam read my diaries. That’s how he knew I liked you. I also spoke to him about you, after that day in the library, asking for advice because I didn’t know how to talk to girls. I told him everything we spoke about, naively thinking he’d help me get the girl. Instead,hegot the girl.Mygirl.”
“No,” I whisper, tears spilling down my cheeks. “It can’t be true.”
“It is true, Lucy.” Closing his eyes, he exposes his soul to me. “August fourth, two thousand and four. Today, I spoke to the girl of my dreams—little Lucy Tucker.”
I gasp, shaking my head. Sam’s nickname for me wasn’t his after all.
“I followed her to the library, adamant that today was the day I was going to finally speak to her. I was tired of looking at her from afar. She was even more beautiful up close. Long honey blonde hair, and the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. Eyes which encompass innocence and hope.
When she asked to borrow my copy ofThe Catcher in the Rye,I tried my best to act cool. But when we touched, I felt alive. No one has ever made me feel the way she does. When I offered her the book and told her she can keep it for as long as she likes, I wanted to add the same could be said about me.
