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I walk up to him and wrap my hands around his middle. His spine stiffens, locking into place.
“I don’t need you.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t need you.” He repeats, weaker this time. His head drops down, hanging against his chest. I hug him from behind, my head against his back.
His hands are braced on the counter. His knuckles are broken and bloody knuckles, I have no idea what from. He’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. Grief pours off him. His heart beats a crazy rhythm.
I try to convey everything in that moment. How sorry I am. How much I hate to see him in pain.
He’s still rigid, refusing to give in.
“No.”
He flips around suddenly, sending me tripping backwards.
“Leave. Get the fuck out of here. What part of ‘I don't want you here’ do you not understand?”
His breathing is ragged, his chest pounding like he’s been sprinting but the look in his eye is haunted. I can read him like a book, even in this moment. He’s pushing me away but it’s a defense mechanism.
Hurt me before I can hurt him.
He thinks people can’t love him and if miraculously they do then look what happens to them.
I reach out and cup his cheek.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He looks at me. The energy is completely charged. The silence drags on ten, twenty, forty seconds before he accepts it.
“Leave.” It’s feeble this time.
“Let me in. Or you’re going to lose me.”
The change isn’t exactly visible if you don’t know him but it’s there – in the way the line of his shoulders smooth out, the way his chin falls a fraction of an inch and his hand rakes his hair.
“It’s not that big of a deal. She’s been gone for ten years.”
I grab his face and press my lips to his. It’s just a peck but all the emotion was in it.
“You’re still allowed to grieve.” I run my hands over his shoulders and down his arms. “You have to feel your feelings and not use anger as a shield to push people away when you feel vulnerable.”
He looks down at me, his gaze unreadable.
“What?”
“Why did you come back?”
“You needed me.” I say, grabbing his hand and bringing it up to my mouth. “And I wanted to.”
I kiss the bloody knuckles. Whatever or whoever he hit must have taken a beating.
“What happened to you in the last 15 minutes?”
He works his jaw back and forth. “I hit a tree. A few times.”
“What were you thinking? This looks so painful.”
