17. Lily
SEVENTEEN
LILY
We’re sitting on my couch when it happens—my past coming back to haunt my present.
It’s late, Chase is already in bed, and I’m here with Alex, my stomach clenching tight from how obviously attached Chase is getting. Alex doesn’t even live here. I don’t know his last name or where he’s from. He’s a mystery that I haven’t unraveled because I’m afraid once I do, I won’t like what I find.
And it’s been so long since I’ve liked someone.
I’m also terrified he’s planning to leave and that, when he does, my child will be a broken mess on the floor. My heart splinters from the thought.
“What are you thinking about so hard over there?” Alex reaches out and grabs my leg, but I jerk it away, my stomach jumping into my throat.
Not because I mind his touch—I don’t.
And that’s the problem.
It’s unusual not to have a visceral reaction from another person’s touch. It’s even more unusual to want the feel of them on my skin. Past experiences have rewired my brain. Crisscrossed all the wires and neurons until the very thought of someone coming near makes me feel like I might puke. But I learned at a young age that fight-or-flight doesn’t work, so instead, my brain hides in a corner where it knows I’ll be safe. Sometimes when I come to, I couldn’t tell you who or what happened.
That doesn’t change the way my body wears the trauma like a second skin.
I shrug. “Just thinking.”
Alex scoots in closer, reaching for me again. This time, I let him pull my arm into his lap and dance his fingers along my surface, pinpricks of pleasure floating through me. I close my eyes and let the feeling wash over me. Let it sink into my pores and fill me up with an energy I haven’t felt from a man’s touch in…ever.
“How did you get these?” His voice is soft as his fingers trail over scarred flesh, but I stiffen in his grasp.
I try to move my arm, but his grip tightens around my wrist and brings me back in. “Don’t hide from me, little bird.”
My lips part and I blow out a slow breath, my stomach in knots at someone acknowledging the marks on my arm that mirror the bruises on my soul.
“You mean my ink?” I force a grin.
His brows draw in, his thumb running circles over the ink, my insides coiling tighter with each pass of his thumb.
“Sure. That’s a good place to start.” He smirks.
I drop my gaze, staring at the tattered gray bunny on my arm—stuffing coming out of the sides and a gaping black hole where the heart should be. A burn chars the center of my throat and I swallow around the tender tissue.
“Growing up, I had a stuffed animal.” My words catch.
“A bunny?” he guesses.
“Yeah.” I nod. “I kept it for way too long, but it was always my sense of comfort. My brother and I, we moved around a lot. Wiggles grounded me.” I frown. “But eventually, I lost him.”
Alex smiles, his white teeth blinding against his tanned skin. “So why the tattoos?”
“To feel safe, I guess?” My shoulders lift. “Whenever things happen I don’t want to think about, I can touch it here on my arm and, I don’t know…” Embarrassment floods through me as I talk, worried he’ll think I’m stupid for caring so much about a stuffed animal.
“It makes you feel safe.” His thumb presses into my skin.
“Yeah,” I mumble.
I expect him to dig deeper, to ask about the rough edges of my skin, puckered and raised underneath the ink, but he surprises me by simply nodding and then raising his eyes to meet mine. There’s a depth to his gaze that I haven’t seen before. Like he’s stripping me bare and looking at every used-up part of me.
It’s heady and intoxicating.
It’s terrifying .
And even though a large part of me wants to cower away, there’s another part that whispers to let him in. Let him see. But I’ve never been asked to share a piece of me before, and I’m worried he’ll take it with him when he leaves.
Alex moves, scooching closer on the couch until our thighs are pressed together, the heat of his body blazing next to mine.
I sink into it, sink into him .
He grabs my fingers, trailing them along the bright colors that cover every inch of his skin. My gut jolts when we stop moving, my hand touching raised flesh. My eyebrows draw in, confusion swimming through my veins, and I lean in closer, eyes straining to see what it is I can feel.
A raised, jagged line.
“The first time I cut, I was eleven.”
My heart jumps into my throat and I swallow around the lump.
“My parents were…” He clears his throat. “Different than most. Controlling. Image was absolutely everything, and because of that, I never had a choice in what mine would be.”
My stomach twists as he speaks, but I’m enraptured by his voice. By his story. I’ve never had anyone share their scars to help me find comfort in my own.
“I don’t even know what made me do it that first time. I can’t remember ever seeing anything about it or…thinking beforehand. I just remember it had been a good day.” He shakes his head. “Art was my favorite subject, and I spent that entire month working on a piece to bring home. It was of my dad.” His voice pinches. “How I saw him at the time, anyway.”
Curiosity at who his parents are brims inside me like water overflowing from the tap.
“My art teacher, Mrs. Mayberry,” he continues. “She told me how gifted I was. How proud they would be. She wanted to feature the drawing in an upcoming community art show. I went home and was so fucking excited. Everyone in my family had a path, you know? And I just knew it in my bones that this was mine.”
“At eleven years old?” I ask.
“When you know, you know.” He shrugs. “But my dad disagreed.” His jaw clenches. “Tore up the canvas right in front of me. Called it a waste of time.”
I scoff, an ache unfurling in the center of my chest for Alex being told his dreams didn’t matter. “He sounds like a dick.”
“He most definitely was,” Alex chuckles. “Anyway, I was upset and started to cry. Which my father also didn’t like.” He moves my hand down to his, our fingers locking together. “Suffice to say, the family I came from didn’t appreciate emotion. And they also didn’t appreciate me going against the grain. Against what was expected . They were the masters driving the carriage, and they gripped the reins tightly. So I hid where no one would see.” He nods toward his arm. “And I controlled what I could.” Sighing, he shakes his head. “And that control was addicting.”
Tears spring behind my eyes at his story. At imagining someone just a few years older than my baby boy, crouching in a corner and putting a blade to their skin.
Alex’s free hand moves up, gripping my chin and turning it until our eyes catch. Until I’m hooked in his gaze.
“My point is, little bird, I understand hiding your past beneath the surface, under pretty colors and inked-up skin.”
He leans in, his mouth grazing against my neck. My stomach flips. “You can tell me all your secrets, Lily,” he whispers into my skin. “I promise I’ll keep them safe.”
My heart stutters in my chest, fighting against the urge to believe him. It’s easy for someone to say words, easy to think they want to know what I’ve been through. But even I don’t want to know. Even I ache to forget. My life is the type of movie you only watch once and then warn others not to waste their time.
So I won’t tell Alex all my secrets.
But I’ll keep his safe all the same.