My entire body is trembling when I fall against him. I cannot kiss him soon enough, and his lips stay against mine for … I don’t know how long.
We kiss forever.
He runs his hands through my hair, and we stay like this, as one, for a long time. Too long.
And then I realize what has happened between us tonight.
We just fell in love.
I am not confusing sex with love. Unfortunately.
Because this is not what I want, and it’s not what he wants. Not yet. We’re not ready.
This love will wait. It has to.
There is something else that I know for sure, and I’m not sure how to feel about it. I have the thought calmly and sanely. It’s not a hysterical reaction to my first-ever sexual experience; it’s just my truth.
I will never sleep with anyone besides Christopher Shepherd.
We lie in bed, silent and wrapped up in each other for a long time. Then Chris gently lifts me from him. “Bathe with me?” he asks.
“Of course.”
He turns on the light over the vanity and leaves the overhead one off. I get to have my tub for two, just like I wanted. But I am melancholy now. Part of that may be because I am worn out both physically and emotionally, and part of it is something else. He runs the water and holds my hand, helping me in. His hand stays on mine as he sits and brings me in front of him. The only noise comes from the tap that cascades water down the side of the tub. I lie in his arms silently while the bath fills. His hands trickle over my arms and my breasts. This time, though, his touch isn’t just sexual. It’s more than that.
I close my eyes and let myself be held and … and loved. Later, he sits me up and very, very slowly washes my body and my hair.
This time there is no imaginary blood and no screaming.
“Christopher,” I murmur.
He moves a soapy hand over my shoulder and murmurs back, “You’re the only person who calls me that. I like it.”
When he’s done, I pull the drain and watch the water empty. I turn around and kiss him softly before I slide behind him and refill the tub. I run my hands over the muscles in his arms and his back. His skin is slick with water and my hands glide easily over his body. And over his scars.
While the tub refills, I kiss his back and massage his shoulders, savoring every moment that I have with him.
I trace his broken scar with my fingertips over and over. And I think. And then I understand—I see—something. His skiing accident explanation? I’ve given the same lie when asked.
Chris drops his head down. He can sense that I know.
Finally, I say what I don’t want to, but what needs to be said.
“This wasn’t an accident, was it?”
He doesn’t answer me right away. I cup water in my hands and drop it over his skin. I watch the drops roll across his body, and I wait.
“No, it wasn’t an accident,” he finally says. “Not really.”
And with those words, my heart shatters.
His father was a much meaner son of a bitch than anyone has told me.
I keep dousing him with water, almost ritualistically, until he turns and pulls me firmly into his lap and takes me in his arms. I stroke the back of his neck with my hand, maybe to comfort him, maybe to comfort me. No matter what I may be screaming in my head, I will stay calm for him. I know all the things not to say, but I don’t know any of the things to say.
“I’m okay, Blythe,” he whispers. “I’m okay. It’s over.”
I nod.
“Do you hear me? I’m safe.”
I nod again.
“Sabin, and Estelle, and Eric? They’re safe, too.”
I don’t want to let go of him, but I want out of this tub and back in our bed, where we are protected and shielded from everything. He stands with me and steps out, supporting me around the waist with his hands as I step over the edge of the tub. I can’t stand to have him even a foot away from me, and I wrap my left arm under his and my right goes over his shoulder. I lock my hands together and set my cheek against his strong arm. I look in the mirror at the two of us. Our reflection in the mirror is poignant because I don’t know when I’ll see us like this again.
And then I see something that I can’t make sense of. I study the reflection while I cling to Chris. What I am looking at is not possible.
The scar on my forearm sits perfectly between the two that angle across his back. My scar fills in, it completes, his. As if we are an exact match … as if we are …
This is crazy.
I cannot show this to Chris. We don’t believe in fate, or destiny, or coincidences … or whatever the hell this is. We don’t believe in the unexplainable, and this is unexplainable.
And yet, I believe.
I start to shiver. Chris breaks our hold to get a towel, and he shrouds me in the thick white terry cloth. “You’re cold, baby. Here.” As he dries my shoulders, I move my hands to his face and hold him. His green eyes are dark tonight, more muted than usual. He is tired, I can see that. But effortlessly, with one arm behind my back and the other under my legs, he lifts me and carries me into the moonlit bedroom, and we make love over and over again for one last night.
It is hours later that we fall asleep with me enclosed in his arms.
When I wake in the morning, he is gone.
In my hand is one of the silver skipping stones that I gave him. There is a folded note, too, that reads, So that you always have what you need.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Hard to Hold
Late February brings brutally cold weather and even blizzards. It’s always like this, but I’m more aware of the bitter cold this year, not to mention the never-ending snow and ice. The indoor track is virtually empty on this Saturday afternoon, exactly how I prefer it. My guess is that almost nobody else wanted to brave the storm that hit today to walk across campus to the gym. It’s that bad out. But it’s half the reason that I’m here. The dorm feels claustrophobic to me today, so I had to get out. It probably took me as long to bundle up in protective clothing as it will to complete my run.
There is one other girl on the track with me and a few guys lifting in the weight room. The glass wall to the room affords me an easy view when I run past, and I spot Chris when I run by. We don’t usually overlap because I often run in the early morning and he usually works out in the late afternoon, but today I spent most of the day finishing schoolwork.
He waves as I near the weight room on this lap, and I wave back. He’s got on a tight blue nylon shirt and black shorts, and I can’t help slowing my pace a little as I take him in. Knowing what is under that shirt and shorts is distracting. I look away and turn up the volume on my music. The most recent playlist from Chris blasts loudly in my ears, and I refocus on my run. The timer that I’ve set reads sixty-three minutes. Another twelve and I’ll stop. I know that I’m still not very fast, so I push hard for the last few laps until my legs and my lungs are burning.
After a cooldown walk and a shower, I stand in my bra and underwear in front of the locker room mirror and dry my hair. Usually I throw my curls in a ponytail, but today I’ll turn into a walking icicle if I go outside without drying it. As I run the brush through my hair and work the blow dryer on high heat, I am noticing the scar on my left forearm more than usual. It’s not that I’m self-conscious or embarrassed about it again, but I’m more … I don’t know what I am. Confused. Bewildered. I haven’t told Chris how our scars match up. I can’t begin to make sense of it.
I halfway want to tell Chris about it, but I’m afraid he’ll be dismissive. For me, there is meaning in how we fit together, there has to be, but I know he won’t see it the same way. Estelle would make too much of it. Sabin would get it. But Chris? No. Besides, the reentry back to school after our days in the hotel was hard enough, and there is no reason to complicate what is over for now. It’s not the right time to talk about scars, mine or Chris’s. And I don’t need details to know the profound significance of Chris’s scars, physical and emotional. What may have happened to him, and to Estelle, Eric, and Sabin, is more than I can stand. But I don’t know the story yet, and imagining details is not smart. I need facts, but I have an unwavering respect for privacy, so I will not ask about this.