Rumors started to circulate around school about what happened with my mother. In two days everyone was talking about how she tried to commit suicide. I couldn’t bear facing my former classmates. I transferred to another school, not that it made things better. Eventually, my father came home one night and announced he had found another job. A promotion and so we moved here.”
He closes his eyes, a muscle ticking furiously in his jaw. When he opens them again, his lashes are wet with tears that haven’t fallen yet. “Did it help? Cutting yourself?”
I wince and lick my lips. That word—cutting—sounds so harsh, coming from that mouth that makes me forget who I am. “Yes. For a while, it did. Until I cut myself too deep, desperate to gain some sort of control over everything that was happening. The next time I woke up, I was in a hospital bed.”
The admission makes me nauseous. When I woke up in the hospital, I saw my father standing beside me. He’d been staring at me softly, a look full of remorse etched on his face. But the second he realized I was conscious, his face had immediately hardened and he asked me why, what was wrong with me. He said that being a Blake is not for the weak.
I shake my head quickly remembering the harsh words that fell from his lips. “I wasn’t trying to commit suicide. I just wanted to feel something. I felt as if I was losing control of everything. I was so desperate.”
He lifts a hand to wipe my face. I hadn’t known I was crying until I felt his thumb brush my cheek.
“Crap. Sorry,” I say, quickly wiping my face with the back of my hand. “I’m such a mess.”
He takes my chin between his thumb and index finger in a firm hold. “I don’t care. You are my beautiful mess.”
I sob and laugh in one breath. “Beautiful? I’m covered with tears and snot.”
“Yes. Your face is puffy and your eyes are red, but you’ve never looked more beautiful.” He points at me and then holds his hand flat with the palm facing him. He moves his hand from his forehead and ends at the chin while pulling his fingers together, and says, “You are beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I sign and speak the words.
I know I probably look weak basking in those words and my previous statement about tears and snot sounded needy, but if his hands offer me the solace I crave, then I’ll gladly welcome it. I tug the black beanie from his head and toss it on the couch before I tangle my fingers into his soft hair. His eyes fall shut immediately and a moan escapes his parted lips.
He opens his eyes again and stares at me through heavy-lidded eyes. His thumb brushes my jaw and I close my eyes, soaking up the heat, the reverent adoration flowing from him and into my skin. I take it all in with a hunger so wild it’s a physical pain. Then he pulls my head down to him and kisses me. What starts out as a sweet kiss transitions into a battle of teeth and tongue. Hands greedy for a touch, bodies fighting to get closer. His fingers leave my face and wrap around the nape of my neck, gripping me tight. A low growl pushes through his lips and into mine.
Holy hell.
How is it I’d lived without his mouth on mine all these years, and the second he kisses me I feel as if he has always been there, kissing me, comforting me, claiming me. Desiring me.
Pain shoots through my spine, reminding me of my awkward position. I tug his hair and he moans, nipping my bottom lip before pulling back. Our hard breathing mingles as our hearts fight to calm down. His hands dive into my hair, sifting through the tresses, his mouth pulled at the sides in my favorite smile.
“How long has it been?” He’s playing with a strand of my hair, wrapping it around his finger, but his eyes are still on mine.
My brain is still trying to recover so it takes me a while to catch up with his question. “Do you mean since I completely stopped cutting myself?” He doesn’t cringe at me using that word. He nods, his stare as rapt as it was before.
“Almost three years now.”
I pause and inhale deeply. I could lie to him, pretend I’m strong. Pretend the mere sight of a knife or a fork, anything that has the power to give me relief, doesn’t tempt me. I’ve come this far now. He deserves to know everything.
“I’ve relapsed once in those three years. One day I came home after a bad day at school. Everyone was going to this party they had been invited to. I wasn’t part of a clique and didn’t have a friend who was friends with the popular kids.”
When I’m done, I take a deep breath. My body feels lighter after the admission, but at the same time, apprehension coils deep inside me. I’m still waiting for him to recoil away from me and leave.
But he doesn’t. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me to him. His gaze is soft and full of admiration, even laced with tears, as he leans to kiss my forehead, my cheek. He looks at me like I’m the most perfect thing in his world, despite the scars that mark my body, despite my insecurities. He looks at me with stars in his eyes.
We spend the rest of the evening just hanging out on the terrace.