I press my lips together and swallow, but still I do not speak.
“But this is what wounded me most of all,” he says, and he reaches for my left hand.
I blink, and a single tear escapes and slowly trickles down my cheek. “You saw?”
My fingertip has returned to its normal color, and there are no indentations left. Even so, it seems to throb in memory of the pain. A pain that Damien now soothes with a single, gentle kiss.
“Will you tell me why?”
I want to tip my head down, but I force myself to look straight at him. With Damien, I do not feel weak or broken, but I am ashamed, because he asked me to come to him if I ever needed the pain again. And this is twice now that I have broken that promise. My finger, at least, survived my assault with more aplomb than my hair.
“I’ve told you most of it already,” I say. “It’s just been a hell of a day.”
“All right. Now tell me the rest.” His voice is easy, conversational, and it soothes me.
“This party,” I admit. “Seeing Giselle as the hostess. Looking around at unfamiliar furniture.” Now that I am articulating these things, I realize how much they’ve been bothering me. “I didn’t even recognize the third floor. That room, this house—for so long, they’ve been ours. But tonight they weren’t.” And I wasn’t yours.
I think the last part, but I don’t say it out loud. Instead, I shrug, a little embarrassed, because I have just spilled so many things. I feel vulnerable and fragile, and I do not like feeling that way. And so I wait for him to say something to calm me.
It takes a moment for those words to come, and when they do, they surprise me. “Come with me,” he says with an enigmatic smile. He holds out his hand, then leads me to a reading area tucked away against the east wall. It’s the most private area of the mezzanine, and there is no line of sight to the third floor. It is dark here, the only illumination coming from the twinkling lights upon the railing.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he pulls me to the wall, then flips a switch. Immediately, soft light fills the long, glass-topped display case in front of us. There are only two things inside, as if this case is meant for treasures, and only two have been located.
They are battered copies of Fahrenheit 451 and The Martian Chronicles, both by Ray Bradbury. I’m confused, but I trust that Damien has a purpose.
“Bradbury’s one of my favorite writers,” he begins.
“I know.” He’s told me about his love of science fiction as a child. In a way, it was his weapon against his father, his coach, and his life. I understand; how can I not when I’d relied on weapons of my own?
“He lived in Los Angeles, and one day I heard that he was going to be signing books at a store in the Valley. I begged my father to take me, but he’d scheduled an additional practice with my coach, and neither one of them was willing to cut me a break.”
“What did you do?”
His grin is slow and wide. “I went to the signing anyway.”
“How old were you?”
“Eleven,” he says.
“But how did you get there? Didn’t you live in Inglewood?”
“I told my dad I was going to the courts, hopped on my bike, and headed for Studio City.”
“At eleven? In Los Angeles? It’s a miracle you survived.”
“Trust me,” he says dryly. “The trip was much less dangerous than my father when he learned what I’d been up to.”
“But that’s an insane distance. You rode all that way?”
“It’s only about sixteen miles. But with the hills and the traffic,it took me longer than I thought it would. So when I realized that I’d be late, I hitched a ride.”
My chest is tight, my mother’s warning to avoid strangers and never, ever, ever pick up hitchhikers ringing in my ears. I am terrified for the boy he was, taking horrible chances because the father that he was supporting was too much of a shit to grant him the one small request that could make him so happy.