She'd been fighting something, standing there. I don't know what to do with the emotions rioting inside me. I'm not used to this. This feeling…it's a helplessness. And I don't have the words to explain.
“We were at an event one evening. Black tie affair at the Carlton Burke Hotel.” She looks down at her hands and it takes everything that I am not to move. To let her talk. “One of the bankers’ wives asked me why I didn’t straighten my hair. To make it neater, she said.” Her voice trembles a little. “I could have said nothing. I could have smiled and been polite and not caused any offense.” I take a deep breath. “Robert politely told me to shut my mouth. That I was going to ruin everyone’s good time simply by pointing out that I liked my hair the way it was.” She swallows and finally looks up at me. “And that’s why we’re not together.”
I take her hand in mine. “He was just like your mom’s boyfriend then.” I hesitate. “He couldn’t take you the way you were.”
She frowns, surprised by my answer. “Yeah, I guess he was.”
Her fingers are soft and smooth as they slide over mine. They slip over my skin, and I am suddenly aware of my own roughness beneath her soft strength.
Her hands have been here, protected and safe in college. Turning the pages of books. Writing papers that were probably f*ck
ing brilliant. Mine have made war. Gripped the butt of a weapon. Wiped sweat and blood from my brothers' skin. They have made terrible decisions. Terrible, horrible decisions. Some that I regret. Others that I don't.
I can't tell her about that. I can't explain to her what walking in my nightmares feels like.
Or what it feels like to have killed and felt no remorse. Society tells us we're supposed to feel bad about killing. That it's something we're not supposed to do and if we do, we must regret it.
And therein lies the problem.
But seeing her with him—with Robert, because he has a name now—seeing what being around him did to the fierce, vibrant woman sitting across from me…it resurrects those instincts inside me. The need to protect. To shelter.
To be an unapologetic shield for her. “For the record, I like you just how you are.”
"Josh." Her voice is a whisper. The slide of a single word through the silence.
I bite my lips together and look up at her. There, looking back at me, is the Abby I know. I turn my hand beneath hers until they are palm to palm.
"He hurt you." There is no question in my words.
"Not today," she whispers. There is a note of fear beneath her words and the violence inside me surges again—a caged, wild beast. I feel the rage rising inside me again. "But yes. In the past. That's a big part of why he's my ex."
"What else did he do?"
Her smile is tight now. She looks down at our hands. Her skin is dark against mine but in the low light of the carrel, our hands might as well be twin shadows in the dim light. "That, my friend, is a long story." She slides her index finger against the vulnerable skin of my wrist and the thin scar that circles the space. "Thank you for being there today," she whispers.
My fingers spasm beneath hers. I'm tempted to curl them around hers, threading them together, knitting her to me where I can hold her. Keep her safe from the bad things I know are out in the world.
From the hurt I saw in her eyes. I want her to trust me with that. The want hits me hard. I need to be honest with her. At least, as honest as I can be.
“I wanted to hurt him.” I can't look at her. "I'm no stranger to violence," I say. She needs to know that. Right now, right up front.
Before I start to lay those feelings out before her and let her do with my heart what she will.
"I already figured that out," she whispers.
Silence stretches between us. Echoes of old memories.
"You're not going to ask about it?"
Her finger caresses the skin of my wrist, and in that gesture is a comfort that is an odd mix of erotic and comforting. I'm not sure how to react. Oh, I know how I want to react. But I won't do that. Not to her.
Her lips quirk into an odd smile. "I'm confident that you've been asked 'Is it like Call of Duty?' more than enough."
My smile matches hers now. "How'd you guess?"
"It's probably along the same amount of times I've been asked what it's like to live in the ghetto or what it’s like to be in a drive by." There is dry resignation in her voice. The voice of someone tired of dealing with the same questions over and over again.
"That sucks." There's really no good answer to a comment like that. I can't pretend to know what it's like for her. No matter how much I'm convinced she belongs here when I don't, I'm sure walking in her shoes is an experience filled with uncertainty, always questioning when the next painful reminder that no, this isn’t really our place will occur.
"You get used to it," she says. "But it doesn't mean I'm not conscious of doing the same thing to my friends." She shifts then and releases a quiet breath. "So I have to tell you something. And you might be upset with me." She slides her fingers from mine and opens her notebook. Instantly, I miss the contact.