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Yeah. Okay. That wasn’t so bad. It didn’t kill me. He wasn’t scoffing at me.
Manson looked elated.
“Well, yeah, of course, that’s good. I can get you my therapist's number —”
Closing my eyes, I counted to ten. Forcing myself to make that phone call would take a while. What was I supposed to say?Hey Doc, I’m pretty fucked up and I guess I’m supposed to talk to someone about it. Want to hear about some child abuse? Also, my brother was that murderer all the papers talked about, so do you mind if I dump all my confusion about that on you too?
“I’ll call for you,” Manson said quickly. “I’ll set up the appointment. Will that work?”
Clearing my throat, I gave him another nod. If I were to think seriously about what I did and didn’t deserve, I didn’t feel like I deserved him. I didn’t deserve that level of patience or empathy. But maybe thinking that was part of the problem.
I walked to the front of the garage so I could light up a cigarette. My hands were only shaking a little. It could have been worse.
Manson came to join me, silent, as I smoked. He’d always been good about that, always willing to share the quiet with me. Words were hard, and I hated feeling so many conflicted things at once without a way to make sense of them. But his presence was stable. It was one of the few things I’d ever counted on.
“I’m proud of you,” he said, and I groaned.
“Can’t you punch me in the gut instead?” I said. “It would be a lot easier to take than...than whatever you’re doing right now.”
He chuckled, shaking his head as I offered him the cigarette. “You’ll survive. What made you change your mind about therapy, anyway?”
“Jess said something,” I muttered. “She said a lot of things yesterday.”
“What’d she say?”
Manson had told me when he confessed his love to her. It freaked me out. Knowing he was in love with her while believing she could never love me too hadn’t been fun to deal with. Polyamory wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine, it took work. We had to deal with those uncomfortable feelings when they arose.
“She loves me,” I said. It made me grin like a fool as I raised my shaking hand for another drag on the cigarette. “She said that I deserve to heal. But what if I can’t? What am I supposed to do then? What if I sit down on that damn couch and spill my guts and even a doctor can’t help me?”
“Then we’ll find you a new therapist,” he said. “You’re going to have to be patient with yourself. It’s going to hurt. But you’ll get there. I know you. You’ll be okay.”
His eyes were so dark they were almost black. It was the first thing I’d ever noticed about him: the way he looked at the world, the way he looked at me. He looked at me like I was something worth saving, something good.
He reached up, and his thumb traced from the corner of my mouth across my lips. “She’s right, you know.”
I gave a quick, abrupt shake of my head. “I doubt that.”
“Maybe. But you believe in it enough to try.”
I hated the fear that squeezed around my lungs, how it demanded I reject this. It wanted me isolated, hopeless, angry and scared. That fear had damn near won. But I wouldn’t let it. Not now, and never again.
I drew closer to him. He and I had been vulnerable with each other before I even knew what that meant. All those nights we’d laid in the Bronco curled against each other, with one thin blanket and our body heat as our only defense against the cold. I thought of the bruises he’d drunkenly kissed. The promises. The tears we’d never let anyone else see.
“I’m not good at doing shit for me,” I said, my voice low and thick with the effort. “But I’ll do it for her. And for you. For all of us.”
“I’m just glad to see you doing it,” he said. “Regardless of who or what it’s for. You’ll figure it out.”
“You better stop talking like that or you’re going to get me choked up,” I said.
But it was too late for him to stop.
He kissed me slowly, almost lazily. His mouth was all minty, like he’d just brushed his teeth. I probably tasted like ash and black coffee, and I drew back from him suddenly, self-conscious.
He pulled me right back, demandingly. His kiss was deeper this time, authoritative as he shoved me against the side of the garage. He kissed me like he was hungry for me, and he pushed up my shirt with his hand so he could run his fingers over my chest.
He found his initials, carved into my skin, and traced them. If the cuts didn’t scar when they healed, I intended to tattoo his initials there instead. He’d left his mark on me in a thousand invisible ways; I wanted at least one that was perfectly visible, one that could never be erased.
“Don’t be gentle,” I said. He was touching me so tenderly and it exacerbated the emotions I was struggling with. I didn’t want tothinkI just wanted tofeel.
