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Sage
Adam winces, sucking in through his teeth as I dab at his knuckles with the alcohol again. The skin is broken on every one of his knuckles, but they’re so swollen and red it’s hard to tell what’s bone, cartilage, and skin.
“How many times did you hit him?” I ask to distract him from the pain as I rewrap it with clean gauze.
“I lost count.”
I bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling. We’re sitting in my bed, still naked from the amazing sex we had less than an hour ago. I caught his hand trembling and I knew he needed it looked at again.
“All because he hurt me?”
He turns his head and looks into my eyes. “Yes,” he replies confidently. I nearly lose my breath for a moment.
“Are you going to break the faces of everyone who hurts me?”
“Yes.”
After his hand is clean and bound, I hold his aching fist against my chest. Then I lean forward and press my lips to his. It feels good to kiss him, for real.
“Want some aspirin?” I ask.
“Yes, please.”
“Be right back,” I reply as I let go of his hand and climb off his lap. When I open the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, I see the extra-strength pain reliever. After dropping three into my palm, I go to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. Then I sit next to him on the bed, watching as he takes them.
Staring at him for a moment, I think about how much he’s changed since I met him. He was the church boy do-gooder. Mr. Perfect. But he was also lost and confused. He didn’t even know who he was. And now…
Adam seems free. He looks…like himself. The version he was always meant to be.
There are still so many things that separate us. Things we might never overcome. Not entirely.
And these changes won’t last forever. It would be stupid of me to assume they would. Nothing ever does.
After the water is gone from his glass, I crawl into his arms, and we lie together on the bed, staring at the plaster on the ceiling.
“Can I ask you a question?” I whisper.
“Of course,” he replies, his lips against my head.
“Do you believe in God?”
He tenses, pulling away to look down at me with a guarded but scrutinizing expression. Almost as if he’s afraid to answer. Finally, he softly whispers, “Yes.” Then he stares at me a moment longer and I wonder if he thinks I’m going to get up and leave based on that response.
“I’m not like my father if that’s what you’re implying.”
Hearing the coarse tension in his voice worries me, so I turn onto my stomach and stare at him. “I know you’re not like him. I was just curious. How much of that was really you and how much of it is you now?”
His brow furrows, but I can tell he knows exactly what I’m asking. As he rests his head on the pillow, his eyes locked with mine, I place my head on his arm and stare into his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he whispers. “But I still believe in something bigger than myself. I was never really like Truett, but I used to believe that if I could stand where he stood, I’d be closer to God somehow. That I’d be worthy.”
I touch his face, running my fingers through the short-cropped beard. “You are worthy.”
“I was never good enough for my father. But I believed that if I was a holy, righteous man, I’d be good enough for God. Now…”
“Now what?” I lean forward, pressing my lips to his for a brief moment. His pain is written on his face, and although I know this is part of his transformation, the change he so badly needs to endure to be happy with himself, it’s hard to watch. Like I’m growing to care for him more than I’m ready to.
“Now I just want to be good enough for you.”
