Now he has his arms around me and is stroking my arm.
I can’t quite believe he’s in my bed, the scene of so many angst-driven fantasies about him. We’re both fully clothed and completely silent, yet this is the most intimate I’ve been with a man since … well, since him.
He takes my hand and places it on his chest, then presses it down against the pulse of blood and silent promises. I can feel him willing me to trust him.
I want to, but it’s like my heart’s too small for him now. When he left, it collapsed like a balloon, empty and deflated, and over time it atrophied into that shape. And now he wants me to make room for him again, but I don’t know how.
“Ethan?”
“Hmmm?”
“When did you know you were capable of … changing?” He strokes my hand for a few seconds, but doesn’t answer. “I mean, you tried to change when you were with me, right? To become more open?”
“Yes. Jesus. I tried so hard. And failed spectacularly.”
“So, how did you go from the guy who left me twice to the guy you are now?”
He looks down at me. “I did mention I’ve been in therapy for three years, right? And I’m not talking just one session a week. In my darker days it was two … three sessions a week. My therapist had the patience of a saint.”
“Yeah, but you could have gotten therapy when we were together, couldn’t you?”
“Technically, yes. But the thought of it scared the crap out of me, and we both know that back then, I was ruled by fear.”
“Then how did you decide you weren’t scared anymore?”
He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you this story, but I guess you deserve to know.”
“What story?” I break out in goose bumps, certain I’m not going to like what I hear.
He grabs my hand and pushes it under his shirt. On the left side of his rib cage, my fingers graze a clump of scar tissue. I’d noticed it when we ran our love scenes, but I was always too distracted by his kisses to find out more.
I lift his shirt and lean over to get a better look. “What is that?”
He strokes my forearm as I continue to graze the rough skin. “That’s where a tube was shoved into my lung to drain out the blood that was drowning me.”
I look up at him and frown.
“And there’s this…” He takes my hand and lifts it to his head. At the back, there’s another patch of raised skin. “That was where my head smashed into a tree. Fourteen stitches.”
Bile rises in my throat. “Ethan, what the hell…?”
He takes my hand and plays with my fingers. “After I left you in senior year, I hit my low point in France. The show was a hit, and I was getting great reviews, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I felt so goddamn guilty about failing you. Again. I already told you I was drinking a lot. Getting into fights.”
I nod.
“Well, after our season, we had a week off before we moved on to Italy. The rest of the cast was going to do a tour of the wineries, but I couldn’t cope with being a miserable bastard around them, so I hired a motorbike and just … left. Traveled aimlessly around southern France, thinking I had the world monopoly on self-loathing. Driving drunk, driving too fast, taking crazy risks. I was a fucking mess. I don’t think I had a death wish, but deep down…” He looks at me. “I guess I wanted to hurt myself more than I’d hurt you.”
“Ethan…”
He shakes his head. “Pathetic, right? Well, one night, after hitting a French pub, I decided to make a play for the Italian border. It had been raining. Too much alcohol, too much speed, zero self-esteem. I took a curve too fast and slammed into the guardrail. My bike went cartwheeling across the road as I flew over the rail and crashed down a steep embankment. Pretty sure I hit every damn tree on the way down. By the time I’d reached the bottom, my helmet was cracked, my leather jacket was shredded, and it felt like someone had shoved a dagger into my ribs.”
“Oh, God…”
“I lay there for a while, just trying to breathe. When I moved, I was hit with so much pain, I almost passed out. I managed to pull off my helmet, but that was it. There was pain in my shoulder, my wrist, my chest. I could feel blood running down my leg.”
“What did you do?”
He shrugs. “I tried to figure out if I was dying. And when I seriously thought I was, I took a moment to try and figure out if that was a bad thing.”
“Ethan…”
I take his hand and he lets out a shaky breath. “It’s weird, you know, facing your own mortality. People talk about their life flashing in front of their eyes, but I didn’t get that. All I got were flashes of you. They were so vivid, it was like I could reach out and touch you. I wondered how you’d react if I died. Would you mourn me? Or would you be happy I’d never hurt you again?”
As I listen, anxiety begins to coil in my chest. Thinking about him dying makes my throat close up.
He strokes my face. “Hey, it’s okay.”
“How could you think I wouldn’t mourn you?”