Chapter 19 #2
This is not for him, but for me—the woman who has spent years in a body she’s struggled to accept as her own.
I still have to force my shoulders back and calm the tremor in my hand, but I’m standing, and tomorrow morning, I’m going to call Amy and tell her about this because I want her to be proud of me .
Because I’m proud of myself.
Mateo reaches me in a single step, and then I’m flying through the air, a surprised squeal escaping as I collide with the mattress.
“Mateo, what are you—”
“Estás regia, Charlie,” he says, his palms splayed on both sides of my head.
“I really hope that’s nicer than ‘witch.’”
He steals my tease with a kiss, a grin blooming against my lips. Then his hands roam, exploring the planes of my skin, pausing when he reaches a scar. He never stops kissing me, but on every section of battered flesh, he makes a second pass.
Mateo stops on my surgical scar, the one that cuts down from my mid-abdomen to my belly button. He lifts to offer a questioning look.
“Spleen removal.”
He’s quiet, and it makes me nervous, until he says, “Useless organ anyway. Who needs it?”
The comment is unexpected, and my head tips back in laughter. I never thought about it that way. My hands fumble with my bra clasp, and when the tension releases, a relieved sigh escapes. The straps slide off my shoulders, and Mateo’s laugh is deep and throaty.
“This thing is a torture device.”
“You’ll find no protest from me if you never wear one ever again,” he says, the corner of his mouth ticking up.
“Is that so?”
He hums, lowering to take my breast into his mouth. He circles my nipple with his tongue, and I reel from the sensation, from how my head clouds with pleasure.
He moves lower, trailing down my abdomen, and I jerk when he reaches the band of my shorts and tugs on the tie. Reality crashes down, my muscles locking and my breath quickening.
No. No. No .
This is not supposed to happen. Not now. The tips of my fingers prick with tingles, my breasts heaving as I stare at Mateo with scared eyes, because that’s what I am: utterly terrified.
The adrenaline pumping through my blood is gone. Discomfort knots beneath my diaphragm, and I scramble upright to cover myself. Every gulp of air feels like a knife tearing apart my vocal chords.
Mateo rises, alarmed, and I curl in on myself, pulling my knees tightly to my chest.
I was fine—excited, even—for what was about to happen. No apparent trigger to the panic attack, but my body trembles.
It’s been months since the last one. Early spring brought a torrential downpour on my drive home from the lab. I managed to pull into a grocery store parking lot before the panic attack took over entirely, but I knew the rain was the trigger.
When I calmed down enough to call Amy, she rushed to pick me up. I never was able to tell her what happened.
“Charlie.” Mateo stands at the end of the bed, a worried tone lacing my name.
I don’t want the panic attacks and nightmares or the fear when my scars show. But most of all, I don’t want him to see this side of who I am. The person who is broken and battered.
He reaches out, slowly enough for me to turn him away if I want, but I don’t. I let his hand fall on the top of my knee, let the warmth of his skin sink into the bitter chill of mine. He grabs his discarded shirt and slips it over my head, guiding my arms into the holes.
I’m so fucking embarrassed, but my throat is too raw to speak, so I sit in silence as he dresses me. I wouldn’t blame him if he broke this off tomorrow—decided this was more than he bargained for.
He’s witnessing the invisible scars I pretend don’t exist because it’s easier to live my life pretending I’m okay. And if no one sees the low moments, then I can keep up the facade .
“What helps?” he asks, and a fissure forms in my chest from the gentle concern lacing the question.
“I don’t know.”
I don’t know how to fix anything; I only know everything is broken.
Mateo reaches out, tipping my chin up. A flash of despair crosses his face, and for the life of me, I can’t understand why.
Is it because he realized this won’t work, or is the sadness actually pity for me?
The thought is sickening, but he holds my gaze and whispers, “Can I help?”
Three words. Simple, meaningless words on their own, but when he strings them together and whispers them with care, they mean more .
I nod, and Mateo crawls into bed, leans against the wall, and spreads his legs. He taps the mattress between his thighs in a silent command, and I will my limbs to loosen enough to move.
My back falls against his chest, and he wraps his arms tightly around my shoulders. He turns out the light, and darkness falls around us as he cocoons me within his embrace.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Sorry I ruined the moment.
Sorry I’m broken.
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
I wanted to grow—to evolve into someone new, someone I was proud of—but maybe it’s a foolish dream to think I could be any of those things.
Mateo presses a soft kiss on the crown of my head, and the fissure deepens with the intimate act.
“Don’t apologize to me . Not for this.” He pulls me tighter. “Never for this. ”
I don’t have a response, so I sit in his arms until the exhaustion makes my eyelids grow heavy and my heartbeat slows to time with his. Mateo’s grip never loosens, even after his breathing deepens.
When I wake in the middle of the night, the hosing from his CPAP presses against my back as he clutches me in his arms. Rather than face the reality tomorrow may bring, I allow myself to fall back asleep in his arms, where things feel safer.