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This woman had no fear of him and yet he towered over her. His upper arm was thicker than her thigh. No one would see if he hurt her. No one would stop him, come to help her if she screamed. She was the most insane thing he’d ever seen and he was terrified of his response to her, but if he made this deal, she’d be out of his life and that was a good thing, the right thing. She’d be safe.
He stuck out his hand. She slid hers into it and he jerked at the contact, her skin so cold, her touch so sweet and brave. Her chin came up and her mouth opened, a tiny hiss of breath escaping, her eyes going wide as if she knew his heart had seized.
She gripped and held, and his fingers moved without his permission, wrapping around hers in the same way his mind had continually chased an image of her, the bell clear sound of her, around and around in his head. The pressure to move their hands came from her. All he could do was hold on as she raised them, lowered them. She let go. He held on, a beat too long.
“Drum, are you okay?”
He snatched his hand back and moved away. The sunrise couldn’t come quickly enough. He could leave her here and wait in the park. He’d be close enough if she needed him, but she wouldn’t, she wasn’t weak, she wasn’t needy.
She was refolding the sleeping bag; it’d be no comfort from the hard rock. He pulled the tarp out. He could make her a better nest to wait in. She stood back and watched while he bent to make a padding from the tarp, stuffing it with book pages and adding his towel between the folded layers and the sleeping bag on top.
“I’ll bet you were good at making spaceships out of bits of nothing as a kid.”
Yes, he’d been that kid, good at making things, scavenging things, fixing things, collecting strays, but there was no good in him now. He shifted aside to let her sit.
“That’s great. Thank you.”
She smiled so big, he wanted to hide his face away, and then she touched his shoulder and through his t-shirt he felt the weight of her, the importance, and he did turn away; roughly, with resentment. She had no right to make him feel these things.
“I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t like to be touched. Please come and sit with me and I promise to be still, not to touch you again.”
She patted the fabric of the sleeping bag. He took a place opposite her nest of junk, his back against a wall of rock. She looked about to say something and changed her mind.
They sat. A breeze stirred. Clouds passed. A bird called. He might’ve meditated, but he couldn’t concentrate with her there and he couldn’t stop looking at her. He was slightly behind her and had a view of her three-quarter profile in the ambient moon glow.
She sat with her knees bent up and her arms wrapped around her legs. Her face was framed by his hoodie, a lump at the back where her ponytail was. She’d pulled the sleeves down and her hands where hidden. She had a sharp little nose, and cheekbones that matched, eyebrows that were cute quirks. He knew her face was a perfect symmetrical oval and her eyes were big and watchful. She had a stud in her nose, tiny, silver. It should’ve taken something away from her loveliness but it suited her. It was embedded in her like a star in the sky, part of her fabric.
He’d met women more beautiful. More willing to use their assets. More affected. He’d met women less beautiful, whose personalities prevented you seeing their physical selves, as if they were ashamed to be heavy, or short, or too tall, and made up for it by sparkling in other ways. All of those women were similar in a way—imprisoned by their looks.
Foley’s beauty made her free, and because Drum was a prisoner, it made him want her, and he could not have what he wanted anymore, because he only knew how to ruin things.
“Drum.”
She watched the night go soft at the edges, go hazy, and he didn’t answer. She’d already stolen too much of his hard fought for ease, she couldn’t have his words as well.
“Drum.” She’d turned and he looked away. “I didn’t know it would be like this. I’ve never intentionally seen a sunrise before, from the beginning. It’s incredible.”
She was silent as the horizon tipped gold, but then he heard her gasp.
“Drum.” She turned her head his way again. “Do you watch it often?”
It’s what helped his feet stay attached to the world. He nodded.
“Thank you for letting me stay.”
Gold became orange, became pink, became scarlet streaks on pale blue. She exclaimed and remarked, without any expectation from him to respond. He sat where he was and his knees cramped and his tailbone turned to unbendable iron, dug into the rock. He wasn’t sleepy, but her head started to droop. She rested her chin on her knees and struggled to keep her eyes open, jerking to wakefulness then sliding to sleep again.
He caught her when her body softened, before she jerked awake again. He sat beside her and let her rest against him, and when she slumped further into sleep, he wrapped an arm around her to stop her falling, to hold her in her exhaustion.
She murmured, nothing noises. Her breathing deepened. She was utterly helpless, hopelessly at his mercy.
She had no right to make him feel so safe.
7: Vulnerable
Foley woke with the sting of the sun on her face. She had a crick in her neck and half her body was numb. The rest of it was stiff and creaky and she was starving. She lay on a bed of torn-up sleeping bag stuff and stiff tarp. She could smell the sea and something of the scent from Drum’s hoodie. She sat up and pushed the hood back and the world was so bright it hurt to look at. It was 6am, she was alone and needed her head examined for brain damage.
She’d fallen asleep in front of Drum.
