He tugs my hands and pulls me down the stairs.
I notice he isn’t wearing cologne. He's slowly becoming what I need to be comfortable.
He lets go of my left hand, but grips my right like he will never let go of it.
He looks down grinning, "I just cleaned them when you were texting on the phone." I can smell the vanilla hand sanitizer in the air.
I look at him, "Shit. I need to text Michelle." I pull my phone out and send him a text, 'Leaving Dorm. Not sure where. Text when I get there.'
He doesn’t answer. I know he's pissed. I don’t wait for him to call. I put the phone in my pocket.
"So what have you been up to?" I ask, desperate to just be normal.
He grins, "Not much."
Trying not to sound too much like a stalker I ask, "Have you been working out? I haven’t seen you?"
He chuckles looking down.
I frown, "What?"
His grin is bashful. He pulls me along the greens toward the OCD restaurant. "I've seen you tons."
I don’t like that. I jerk my hand away, "You were watching me?"
He shakes his head, "No. I was genuinely at the gym the same time as you, but I stayed out of your way. I didn’t want to upset you."
"I hate when people treat me delicately." I snarl.
He scoffs, "And you don't like help and you don't want to talk about yourself. You have to give me something."
"I'm an orphan."
He looks at me sideways, "You said big family."
"Lots of orphans."
He doesn’t speak and for that I am grateful. The words roll off my tongue much easier, without having to worry about the amount of pity he will give me. I'll hear it in his voice. I always do.
"I was found at age six wandering the streets of a town called Clovis, New Mexico. No parents, no ID, no trace of where I came from. I knew my name, Emalyn Spicer. I was eating garbage and living on the streets. They don’t even really know how long I was alone."
I can hear his breath. I can see his pulse in his neck. But he still says nothing.
"I was adopted by the Catholic Church and raised in an orphanage in Clovis." My voice doesn’t waver. I have never told the story before. The words have never left my lips. I never had to explain it in Clovis. Everyone knew. Dr. Bradley knew. My benefactor knew.
The story comes so much easier than I imagined it would. When I was little, I imagined I would one day be a famous writer invited on a talk show to tell the story. I never imagined it would be on the greens of a university in Boston. I never imagined it would be to a guy so beautiful and sweet, that I can't imagine what I did to deserve him.
"That's heavy, Em."
I nod. I am strong. I am if I let myself be. "Yup. The nuns had rules about how things were done. In the beginning I was such a savage. You see, if one kid gets sick, all the kids get sick. There isn't a lot of money and stuff. So they were clean. Really clean. Anyone who wasn’t clean was punished."
His brow furrows but I shake my head and hurry the words from my lips, "I don’t blame them. They ran a tight ship. They had strict rules. But we were fed and clean and cared for. No one there hurt me, not in a way that couldn’t be healed. But I have a germ thing. The germs were like Satan, trying to get in and make us sick. Cleanliness is next to Godliness."
He licks his lips. I stop walking, "If you're done, I get it. I know how heavy that baggage is. I know what it means. I won't ever have children and I won't ever be normal and have a family or any support or anything. I can hardly be in a room with more than a few people before I start plotting my exit. If I have to cross an area rug my feet have to touch the same number of lines. I have to have everything even and balanced and controlled. I'm okay with it because it's always been my reality. But I don’t expect you to be." It kills me to say it, "I know what I am." The statement doesn’t feel true. It feels forced.
He spins me fast and lifts my chin. His lips press against mine. It's so much better than I ever imagined it would be. His lips don’t hurt or crash or overstep. They're soft and sweet. He is delicate but in control. I'm not. It's weird, but I let his mouth explore mine. His tongue slowly slides into my parted lips and lazily caresses mine. His hands are soft, not holding me but embracing me. His movements are methodical. He pulls back. I open my eyes, which I didn’t even realize I've closed, and grin. "My first kiss." I whisper.
He smiles and the world is okay. It feels like it grew a tiny bit. Like I let him into the small corner where I live. He grabs my hand, squeezing it and kisses the top of it, "Now stop trying to scare me off with talks of having kids and area rugs and shit. I'm not going anywhere."
My heart skips a beat.
I am a real girl.
The irregularly rapid heartbeat, combined with the warmth clawing around in my belly, makes me hopeful that I'm not ruined. Maybe I am just broken. Maybe I can be healed. It wasn’t just a first kiss. It was hope and possibility. And like the sky was dark and the air was humid. I was alive again, or maybe for the first time.
Either way I was grateful.
Chapter Six
His fingers brush along my belly, making a trail of heat and nerves. We've been kissing like we're fifteen for weeks. I pull away and shake my head. He whispers, "I just want to touch you." His lips call to me. I lean in and kiss him again. My head spins from the kisses. Somehow, I end up on top of him. His hands are dragging up and down my back, under my shirt. I sit up and push him away. I climb off backwards. It's almost like a crab would walk, but faster and twitchy. He knows I need a minute.
This time is different though. I need more than that. I grab my shoes and cell phone and run. I grip the cloth backs of my shoes and leave.
The hallway of the penthouse feels like the one in the Shining. It's never ending and I expect ghosts to be there. I push the button for the elevator in a series of taps, like I'm sending it Morse code and telling it to hurry up.
I hear the door, followed by his voice, "Emalyn. Come back. It's okay. You're safe, Em."
Tears flood my eyes, they never leave though. Instead, they make the tiny kaleidoscopes to fix everything I see. I turn and run down the hall to the stairs when he starts walking toward me. The cold air in the stairwell is refreshing. I make it halfway down before I stop. He hasn’t opened the door. He knows it feels like he's chasing me. I need the minute. I take a deep breath.
I whisper into the silence of the hallway, "The world is tiny. It's a small place where I have the control. I'm grateful. I'm grateful." I pull the hand sani from my pocket and wash my hands and lips. It stings a bit on my delicate, overly-loved lips, but the smell is divine. It's caramel apple. I almost feel like Shell with her lipgloss, smelling so pretty. I put my shoes on the stairs and sit on them. My socks touching the stairs are freaking me out.
"I'm grateful for being such a weirdo." I smile. At least I can worry about the dirty socks I have to throw out and not the boy waiting for me in the building somewhere.
The pounding of my heart and the sweat on my palms start to diminish. The walls of the room back off. Things have color again. It's a stairwell, so there isn't much color, but enough to remind me that I am grateful I can see. I take deep breaths and stand up. I slip on my runners and finish going down the stairs. I'm alone on the stairs. I'm grateful for being alone.
When I push the latch on the door, he's standing in the foyer. His pants are still undone, I blush and remember it was my fingers that had done that. He chest stretches his t-shirt. I focus on that and not the pity and excuses he has flashing in his eyes. He's making them up for me. The poor orphan who the nuns beat. If he only knew the truth. He wouldn’t make excuses. He would walk away. I don’t know the truth of it all. I hear the echo of the gunshot still and know it's bad enough, that even my brain won't let me see.
I'm frozen in the doorway. The door to freedom and the outside, isn’t far from where I'm standing. I take a step towards him, and not the door at all.
"Want to take a walk?" He whispers when he sees the choice I've made. I've chosen not to run. This time.
I nod. He grabs a sweater from the chair behind him and pulls it on. He tosses me a hoodie. It smells like him. I like the smell now. I grip it in my fingers. "Why?" I ask.
I can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks, "I needed to see you. I needed to make sure you were okay."
I shake my head, still frozen, still gripping the hoodie, "Why are you putting up with me?"
"I like a challenge." He does up his pants.
I smile, but I don’t want to pull on the hoodie. I don’t want there to be a second that I am not able to see him. It's the same reason I sit at the very back of the class and I don't sleep when I'm scared and alone. It takes over when I'm scared. He takes a step back. He sits in the armchair against the wall. He knows sometimes I need space. If he gives me space, I'll usually calm down.
He looks relaxed. I force my hands to work. I force the hoodie over my head. I lift my gaze to meet his. He grins. His hazel eyes scare me. I can see the thoughts he's thinking inside of them. He's worried.
I walk to the exit. I hear him get off the chair. His steps are long, so when I push on the exit door and step out into the cold air he's behind me. Boston in the fall is cold. It's November and the air is chilly. I'm not used to it. The warmth of him behind me is reassuring just as much as it's alarming.
He takes my arm and loops it around his. He doesn’t apologize anymore. He knows it isn’t him. It's me. It's my reaction.
"Tea?" He asks and it feels like we move on and pretend we are normal.
I laugh and shake my head, "I hate tea. It tastes disgusting."
He stops and spins me to look at him, "Earl Grey?"
I nod, "Sick." He's snapping back from my head case nuttiness faster than I am.
