21 #3
“After dad left, Andy missed him so much. I mean, of course he did, he was a little kid. But he was always asking about him and talking about how much he wanted him to come home and it just… made me mad. It made me so fucking mad. I know that’s not fair.
He was a kid and he didn’t know. But every time he asked about dad, it felt like he was choosing him over us.
And I just couldn’t take it. I couldn’t take lying to him, and I couldn’t take his nostalgia for the days when our father was beating our mother behind closed doors.
So I shut him out. And I know that’s my fault.
One hundred percent. I’m the older brother here, and I’m the reason we spent years not talking to each other.
It’s just more proof that I have part of dad in me. I fuck things up.”
It’s like he’s convincing himself as he speaks, body tensing tighter and tighter until he’s urging me off of his chest, standing abruptly from the bed and reaching to pull on his pants with rough movements.
“So yeah, that’s why I don’t do this stuff. I’m not good at it. I’m not good at relationships. I don’t like people and they definitely don’t like me. Flirting and sex are great but at the end of the day, the real me is not someone anyone would want to get involved with. I don’t know why I thought—”
“Owen.” This time my voice holds no tenderness. It’s a command, an angry one, and it startles him enough to force his gaze up to mine. “Are you kidding me?”
“What?”
“That’s why you do the casanova thing?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The sleaziest, cockiest version of yourself that you’re always sliding into with your dates.” I can’t help but scoff out loud. “I’m an idiot. I should have known…”
“Whatever. I can’t do this.”
I can feel the anger radiating off of him, and I take a moment to check my own reaction: no racing heart, no sweating palms.
Angry men are usually a trigger for me. But even trapped alone in this room with Owen, bigger than me and angry at my words, I know in my gut that I’m safe. And that emboldens me towards honesty.
“Oh my God. Come here.”
I stand and grab his hands, urging him to sit on the edge of the bed.
Before he can stand again, I straddle his lap, running my fingers through his hair and ignoring the way he tried to push me away moments before, because I think I finally get it—all the threads in the tapestry of Owen’s life weaving together into a cohesive picture.
Still naked, I anchor us in the feeling of his bare chest against mine.
“I see you, Owen,” I say, trailing my hands from his hair down to his jaw, locking our gazes together.
“I see your fear of opening up, because what if that person doesn’t like what they see underneath?
What if they hurt you? And you know why I see it?
Because I’m that way too. You’re like me.
You are nothing—nothing—like your dad. I’ve never even met him and I’ve still never been more sure of anything in my life. ”
He tries to look away but I won’t let him, a hand on either side of his face.
“I can tell you don’t believe me and I could kill you for that.”
He lets out a single, short laugh. “Only you would comfort someone with a threat.”
“I’m serious. I think you’re one of the best people I know.
” I trace the contours of his face with my fingertips—his eyebrows, the curve of his nose, the part between his lips—as I say, “You’re smart, you’re compassionate, and empathetic, and persistent.
And you’re kind. Despite being a huge bitch just like me. ”
A huff of air escapes his lips.
“And you hide all of it. You don’t want people to know how much you care and how much you’re doing for them, and I don’t understand why. Because every new part of you I see makes me—” I hesitate, then say, “—makes me care about you even more. And I’m a hard judge of character.”
One edge of his lips considers a smile. “That you are.”
“So this?” I rest my palm over the snake tattoo on his collarbone.
“Keep it as a reminder of what you’ve been through—fine.
You can even keep it as a reminder of the type of man you don’t want to be.
But if I ever hear you say that being like him is in your nature again, I’m gonna cut off your balls and put them in a pickle jar. Vinegar and all. You understand me?”
Owen’s hands caress my bare hips as he says, “I think you should’ve been a nurse. Your bedside manner is incredible.”
“I’ll show you bedside manner,” I say, shoving him backwards and rolling us over until we’re completely tangled in the sheets and each other again.
When we finally make our way back under the covers, I guide the conversation to where it started.
“So did we cover all of them? Your tattoos, I mean.”
He glances down at his torso. “I think so.”
“No tattoos for any exes, huh?”
He shakes his head with a half-smile. “I’m not that stupid.”
I shrug. “It might be stupid, but it’s romantic. You really don’t have any?”
“No,” he says, tracing a soft path across my shoulder, up my neck, coming to rest on the side of my face. “If I get a tattoo for a woman, it will be because I’m never letting her go.”