My dad got five years in prison, and I finally got my freedom. Supposedly. When the memories come rushing back at me like this, it makes me wonder if I’ll ever actually be free of his hold over me.
I wait for Ali to give one of the usual reactions to my scar: wincing, or gasping, or even turning away. But all she does is slowly shake her head, like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. Like she doesn’t want to believe it.
She takes a hesitant step forward, and another. I’ve had girls show worry when they see my scar, but it’s always been fleeting. Ali is the first to stare at me with this sort of concern—the kind that not only cares, but knows. It’s a haunting expression, and I want to look away.
Ali brushes her fingertips along the very top of the scar, where it marks my shoulder. Her fingers are smooth and gentle, and as she touches me, heat spreads out across my skin. It reminds me that I can still feel, and that as much as I regret it sometimes, I’m still alive.
Her touch is feather-light and slow, but she never breaks contact from my skin. It’s like she knows that if she does, this weird trance we’re both in will end.
My muscles tense and itch with the urge to pull away, but I make myself stay still. When she reaches the base of my ribs, where the scar ends, she hesitantly retracts her hand and stares down at her fingers. She rubs the tips of them together, the movement slow and thoughtful, and then looks back at me.
She shakes her head again, and I cringe, knowing I’ve made a mistake. She probably thinks I’m trying to one-up her, like my abuse is somehow worse than hers. But, before I can apologize, Ali leaps forward and throws her slim arms around my neck.
I’m too shocked to react. I just stand there as she squeezes me into a hug, her cheek resting against my chest, right where the scar slashes over my heart.
She’s short. The thought drifts through my mind as I struggle to find an appropriate reaction to her hug, other than jerking away. I’d almost forgotten how tiny she is. She’s so strong, so brave, it’s easy to forget she’s hardly five feet tall.
I finally get my arms to work and wrap them around her shoulders. For once, she doesn’t flinch, and just lets me press her closer.
“I’m so sorry,” she mumbles into my chest.
I rest my cheek on top of her head and breathe in. Her hair smells like a sweet blend of plums and honeysuckle, and I gently smooth the locks that fall over her shoulder.
“Don’t be sorry,” I finally whisper back. I know she can’t see my lips, but I’m not ready to let go of her.
We stand there for a long moment, just holding each other, until Ali slowly pulls away and offers me a shy smile. For the first time since I’ve met her, her smile seems completely sincere, without any wariness or suspicion weighing it down. As soon as I see that, I know I did the right thing showing her my scar. As painful as it is to bring up my past, it’s worth it to see the trust in Ali’s expression.
“Thank you,” she signs.
I smile back a little and sign, “Don’t thank me yet. We still haven’t gotten to New York.”
I hold my breath, half expecting her to resist my words and say she’s not coming with me anymore. She shakes her head, and my stomach drops.
Then she signs, “No, I mean thank you for believing me.”
She hesitantly looks down at her arms and rubs them, and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing I am: did we really just hold each other like that? I’ve done more than holding girls—a hell of a lot more. But, somehow, that felt almost more intimate.
Before either of us can freak out, I gently take her hand, lacing my fingers through hers and pressing our palms together. Her hand feels so tiny and delicate in mine, but it’s warm, and her grasp is surprisingly strong. I gently tug her toward the bedroom at the back of the RV.
“Come on,” I say. “You should get to sleep.”
She freezes for a single moment and then yanks away from me, her expression suspicious. I raise my hands in a gesture of surrender.
“I’m not going in there with you,” I sign. “I’ll sleep out on the couch. You take the bed tonight.”
She purses her lips. “You’re sure?”
“I’m positive.” I nod toward the bedroom. “I’m going to go get Cuddles out, and then you can crash in there. Okay?”
I reluctantly let my hand slip away from hers, glad that she wasn’t the one to pull away first, and retreat to my bedroom. Cuddles is waiting just inside the door. My dog cocks her head to the side and stares up with a highly perplexed look, like she can’t imagine what could possibly be important enough to keep me distracted from her. I kneel beside Cuddles and wrap an arm around her thick shoulders. She wiggles her stump of a tail, happily accepting the hug as she tries to lick my face.