Old Wounds (31 page)

I had no clue
how
to “be closer” to Sophie, and the likelihood of failure was pretty high. I was nothing like the guys she seemed to like, and I had no idea what she really thought of me. I’d spent the majority of my life avoiding people in general. I was no student of human behavior, and was having a hard time figuring out if she really wanted anything to do with me or if she was just trying to make the best of being stuck with me in her involuntary quest to be less screwed-up.

Either way, I still felt compelled to wheedle more information from her. She carried so much on her shoulders and she steadfastly refused to let anyone help. She refused to even acknowledge the weight was there.

“S-Sophie?” She looked up at me and I looked away.

“Hmm?”

“W-why didn’t you g-go to the dance?”

“I told you. They’re not my thing.”

Shaking my head, I refocused on her. Her eyes looked exceptionally big and bright. “B-but you were in g-g-gymnastics. I-isn’t dancing almost the ssssame?”

Pulling her hair to the side, she exposed her neck and I caught sight of the small scars. It reminded me of her e-mail. She had asked me why I was fixated on it. I truly didn’t know, but I felt bound to ask; like I
needed
her to tell me. She was always so guarded, and even though she knew my life wasn’t honeysuckle and roses, she still didn’t share any more than she felt she had to. It bothered me.

I understood her silence, but I didn’t like it.

It felt like if I knew that one piece of information about the fork, it would be a huge victory, and with that knowledge, we would finally realize we had something more with each other than just the verbally-acknowledged friendship.

“It’s not the actual dancing that’s not my thing.”

I drew my thoughts back to the question I had asked before I got sidetracked by my internal musings about the fork. I said, “Then w-why didn’t you g-go?”

“A room filled with a bunch of people I don’t really like isn’t all that appealing, Elliott. It’s pointless. Stupid people subject themselves to rites and rituals they don’t believe in. I don’t want to go to a dance because everyone else does. I don’t want to go to the dance as some sort of status booster.”

I took a deep breath and moved once more to the edge of my bed. If I knew I wouldn’t fail, I’d have gotten up off of this bed and sat next to her on the couch. It wouldn’t be the first time we were sitting close together. We shared a table in the greenhouse. There wasn’t anything different about that and sitting next to her on my couch. Absolutely nothing. So there wasn’t anything to be worried, nervous, or anxious about.

A tingle in my chest told me otherwise, but my body rose off the bed anyway, even as my mind battled with itself. The couch wasn’t far, but it seemed like a long distance for my feet to travel. When I was sitting next to her, I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. I felt almost frozen in fear.

It was incredibly new to me to actually
want
to be physically close to someone. I wanted to touch her face like I had last night, and I wanted her to run her hand through my hair the way she had before. I wanted this closeness because the currents of energy that flowed between us when we were close like this, felt so good; so right.

When I finally looked at her, she had sunk into the couch a bit, her head lying back. Her eyes were closed and I wondered if she was tired, bored, or just comfortable. It seemed to be the latter because of what she said next.

“I love your room.” Her voice was quiet.

Remembering that it was only last night when she took my hand in the car, I thought that if I had no fear of failure,
I
would touch
her
hand this time. Despite the racing of my heart, my hand moved closer to hers, my fingers just brushing against the backside at first.

Then they glided over her smooth skin, and I felt that same prickling feeling that made me shiver. Before I could let out a shaky breath just from the thought that I’d actually done something like that, my fingers curled around her hand.

It was small, much smaller than mine, just as a woman’s hand usually is compared to a man’s. But it felt so fragile, like if I squeezed too hard, it would fracture into a million tiny pieces. There would be no squeezing though, since it took so much energy to even be able to do what I was doing now.

It didn’t go unnoticed that she hadn’t protested my touch. Her eyes were still closed and I wondered if she’d even felt it. She nibbled on her lower lip as her chest rose and fell more rapidly than usual.

As the current song faded away, I knew the next one was practically made for moments like this. If I thought I couldn’t fail, I would pull her up, bring her into my arms, and dance with her.

But only if I knew my attempt wouldn’t fail.

As Otis Redding’s rich voice singing of lonely arms saturated the thick air of my room, I suddenly felt emboldened, as if I truly knew I couldn’t fail. I was already holding her hand and she hadn’t pushed me away. It was incredibly easy to stand up, my hand still attached to hers, and pull her up with me. Sophie’s eyes popped open and for a moment, I saw a brief flash of something. That fear, panic, whatever it was, dissipated quickly as her eyes locked with mine.

I was nervous, near panicking, and yet it seemed incredibly right and natural to bring Sophie this close to me; as if bringing her
into
me.

She wobbled just a bit as I tugged her up, and she gripped my fingers. I stepped back just enough to pull her away from the couch and risked a look at her face. Her eyes widened and she licked her bottom lip. I heard her sharp intake of breath and I steeled myself for the rejection that was sure to come.

But it didn’t.

Instead, she let out a long sigh and her expression changed. It looked as if she was confused.

One of my hands slid behind her as I wrapped my arm around her waist. I was amazed how well she seemed to fit in my arms, as if she’d been made to be there. I swallowed hard and mentally forced my body to behave; to
not
react to the sheer nearness of her. If I allowed it, panic could overwhelm me at any second.

She smelled so good.

Slowly and very, very carefully, I moved just a little, bringing her with me in a soft sway. For just a moment, her head was pressed into my chest and I wondered what she thought of my rapidly-beating heart.

“I can’t really dance, Elliott,” she whispered into my green button-down shirt.

“N-n-neither can I,” I whispered back. I’d never done it before in my life.

So we swayed in the middle of my room to the music her grandmother used to listen to while her father, Stephen, and Robin were downstairs and everyone else was at the Homecoming dance.

I didn’t have time to wonder how long she would let me hold her, because she was already out of my arms and across the room before the song was over, her hand gliding along my books as she liked to do. I suddenly felt very empty, as though I’d lost a bit of myself.

Rubbing my hands on the side of my pants, I watched her pretend to be interested in what was on my shelf.

“I was putting the dishes in the dishwasher.”

I blinked when I heard her quiet voice, wondering what it had to do with anything at all.

“I’d been late coming home from school, so I didn’t get dinner done in time and it was supposed to be some kind of ‘special’ dinner for her and her boyfriend. I served it late and undercooked.” Sophie paused, taking a breath. “She waited until he left.”

I had wanted her to look at me so I could see her, but now that I understood what she was talking about, I knew I wouldn’t have been able to look at anyone either.

“I was trying to get finished. I had homework, and Helen’s idiot cat had puked all over the floor and I had to clean it up. Usually I knew where she was at all times; it was safer that way, but I must have been thinking about something else, or maybe I was really high or whatever, because I had no idea she was in the kitchen with me.” Sophie stopped speaking for a while, scratching at the wood of my bookshelf, and fingered a small green rock.

She let out a deep breath. “I didn’t know she was there until I felt the pain in my jaw. She hit me from the side and I stumbled. My legs hit the door of the open dishwasher and I couldn’t stop myself from falling. I hit my head on the edge of the counter, but the searing pain in my neck was too much. It was the last time I ever put forks or knives with the pointy sides sticking up.”

“S-SSSSSophie,” I began as I took a step toward her. I stopped when she turned quickly.

“I have to go.”

No. I didn’t want her to leave. “D-don’t.” I took another step forward, but she pressed herself against the bookshelf. Her fingers wouldn’t stop moving: curling, straightening, twisting. She was tapping her foot, but not to the beat of the music, and her shoulders shook a little. She looked like I felt during the onset of a panic attack.

I didn’t want that for her.

“S-Sophie?” I took a step backward, knowing that any forward movement would just make her even more uncomfortable. “W-w-w-will you e-mail m-mm-mmme tomorrow?”

She swallowed hard and took a shaky breath before finally looking me in the eyes. She nodded. “But I have to go now.” It was barely a whisper which let me know that she’d never told anyone this before; the newness of telling someone was probably more frightening for her than the night it actually happened. I knew how scary it was when people learned secrets which were never meant to be revealed.

I returned her nod and went back to my bed. By sitting down, I hoped that I was showing her she was free to leave and that she wasn’t trapped. It took her a moment, but she surprised me by sitting down next to me. Suddenly she was in my arms again, her breath hitting my neck and sending shivers down my body. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like it was vital that I do
something
.

I should’ve wrapped my arms around her and whispered that it would be okay, even if it wasn’t going to be. I should’ve let her know I cared for her and I understood the pain she felt. I should’ve done a lot of things, but my chances were taken from me as she pulled back and then stood. Quickly, she ran her hands through her long hair and went to the door, muttering a goodbye as she left.

The feeling of her so very close to me was beautiful. Her short hug was an acknowledgement that something deep had now passed between us.

As painful as it was to watch and listen to her tell that story, I’d been right. It
did
feel like a victory.

I went downstairs as Mr. Young and Sophie were leaving because Stephen and Robin expected it. Sophie was quiet and wouldn’t look at me. I didn’t take it personally. While I’d only known her for a short time, it was easy to see that she wasn’t rejecting me with her silence.

It was her nature to avoid thinking about things. She had just told me about being stabbed in the neck with a fork because her mother hit her. I understood her silence and that she felt helpless and exposed.

I retreated upstairs, to the only sanctuary I knew: My bedroom. I couldn’t help but feel as though we had crossed some kind of invisible line in our relationship. These questions we asked had a purpose. She wouldn’t answer mine if some part of her didn’t want me to know these things about her. Again, that felt like a huge milestone.

Our dance was a dance for those who’d never been granted the right to be innocent. We’d barely moved and it was far too short, but I hadn’t failed in my quest to be close with her. Afterward, she’d finally admitted out loud that something dark and terrible had happened to her.

If I hated Sophie’s mother before based on pure speculation, I loathed her now. There was no funny, but scary story that accompanied the four little marks on her neck. Instead, it was
just
scary. There was only pain and confusion. It didn’t matter how old Sophie had been when it happened, or what she did to deserve something like that, because no person, at any age, deserved to be hit. Thinking about how she could have died because sharp implements were so dangerously close to major arteries, made it that much more horrific.

For a moment, I felt paralyzed as I realized just how close to death she could have been. It must have been bloody. It must have hurt. Forks, while being sharp, were sort of blunt as well. Thank God there wasn’t a knife to accompany it; otherwise Sophie probably would have died that night. I wondered if her mother took her to a doctor, or if it was just patched up at home to avoid all of the questions that would have surely come up if she’d gone to the Emergency room. I wondered if the dirty fork gave her an infection that her body had to fight off while it tried to heal itself.

I knew that kind of pain. I wanted to give her one of my heavily-guarded secrets like the one she had given me tonight, but my chest seized just thinking about it.

I wondered what the future would bring for us. She had a pattern of saying or doing something that was real, or at least that
felt
real, and then withdrawing. I wondered how much damage our pseudo-dance and her small but incredibly meaningful confession had caused, and whether she would even talk to me.

The next day I sent her a very short e-mail that was intended to let her know that I knew how scared she was.

Sophie,

I won’t tell anyone. I realize that what you told me last night is a secret. I know that whether you meant to or not, you’ve entrusted me with its keeping. I won’t betray that trust, I promise. I’m your friend, Sophie, and you’re mine and that makes you the best thing in my life.

Thank you for giving that to me. I won’t ever do anything to damage what you’ve given to me. I realize how special it is.

Thank you, Sophie.

Elliott

I typed her name three times and I liked how it felt doing it. I liked typing the word friend because I knew that we
were
friends. I felt warm and safe because whatever the future brought for the two of us, I would always have the comfort of knowing that she chose me, even if it was just for that brief moment in my room to the rich, soothing voice of Otis Redding.

While my siblings talked about the gym full of streamers and what songs were played, I thought again about my own dance with Sophie. It was short, probably not even a minute, but she’d let me hold her longer than I thought she would have. When she moved away from my arms, I knew that it wasn’t about me. Then she’d given me a hug.

I wanted to hold her again, to feel her body close to mine. I wanted to feel that chemical exchange and the way her skin made mine tingle. I wanted to know if she felt a similar connection. I wanted to know her and I hoped that she still wanted to know me.

I wanted to make her happy; to see her smile like she had by the stream in the woods of flowers of fallen leaves, and in the book store. I wanted to take all those memories away from her that made her so sad.

I wondered if Sophie would ever let me dance with her again. I wanted her in my arms, pressed against me. I wanted to be so close to her that I could smell her. I wanted to be so close to her that she wouldn’t have to share those heavily-guarded secrets, because they would just silently absorb into me.

I didn’t just want to know her secrets. Surprisingly, I wanted her to know mine. There was so much I could tell her. There was so much about my real family that I’d never said to
anyone
. It would be painful, but at the end of the process,
someone
would know it all.
Someone
could help me carry
my
burden, but before I could allow that to happen, I needed to help her. I was dedicated to helping her as if it was my new mission in life.