Chapter 10 #3
He stroked my hair, slow and patient. He said, “Good girl. Good girl. That’s my good girl,” over and over, a chant that burrowed in and made the tears come harder.
The edges of the world reassembled slowly: the slight spring of the mattress under my hips, the sharp tang of sweat and sex in the air, the sound of my own hiccuping breaths.
His touch was everywhere, working a slow circuit from my spine to my shoulders to the burning heat of my ass, grounding me, keeping me from slipping straight off the face of the earth.
I didn’t want to move. I wanted to collapse, to let him hold me there forever, stuck in the bright and terrible aftermath.
But even after the pleasure receded, the sobbing wouldn’t stop. It turned into a kind of keening, a desperate, wordless apology for everything I’d ever done wrong. I tried to wipe my face with the back of my hand but my arm barely obeyed.
He didn’t let go. Not once. He just smoothed my hair, then tugged my head up so I was looking at him.
I felt the mess on my face, the snot and spit and tears, but he didn’t care.
He looked at me with something close to awe.
There was no anger left, only pride—pride in me, for being so fucking good for him.
He kissed my forehead, my temple, the corner of my eye, each one like a seal over the cracks he’d split open. “You did so well,” he whispered. “You’re safe. I’m right here. You’re safe.”
My body wouldn’t stop shaking. I clung to his arm, nails digging in, leaving little half-moons above his wrist. It felt like all the bad things had been rinsed out of me, every bit of fear or guilt.
I started crying harder, and he just rocked me, held me tight, talking low in my ear.
Half the things he said I couldn’t even process.
It didn’t matter. It was the sound that counted, the rhythm of his voice that let me sink all the way down
I melted onto his lap, every bone gone soft, my cheek pressed to the blanket. He kept his hand on me, never once letting go.
After a while, when I could breathe again, I looked at the duvet and saw the tears, the streaks where I’d drooled or maybe even bitten the fabric.
I did not care.
I just let him hold me, and let the room go quiet again, and felt the stinging in my skin as a kind of proof.
He gathered me up and held me. One arm under my knees, the other around my back. He wrapped the duvet around me so only my head and hands stuck out, and carried me to the far side of the bed. He sat with me in his lap, tucked in tight, my face buried in his neck.
He rocked me, a tiny motion, just enough to feel. He stroked my hair, the side of my face, my bare shoulder where it peeked out from the blanket. I heard his heart thump, slow and steady. I heard my own breath, still catching every third or fourth inhale.
He reached for the glass on the nightstand. “Drink,” he said. I drank.
He wiped my face with the hem of his shirt. It was soft, worn, probably older than either of us. He said, “Good girl,” not once but every minute, like it was a drumbeat he couldn’t let go.
He said, “So brave,” and, “That’s it, sweetheart, you did so well,” and, “You’re mine. All mine, and I’m so fucking proud of you.”
I didn’t have words for a long time. I floated. I breathed. I let myself be small, so small I could fit inside his hands.
After a while, I said, “I haven’t been touched gently in two years.”
He kissed the top of my head. “I know.”
I said, “Nobody has called me good. Or brave. Or anything. I felt like an animal. Like I was being hunted.”
He rocked me again. “That ends now.”
The tears started up, but not the bad kind. I just let them go.
“I’m so tired, Pietro.”
He held on tighter. “I know. You don’t have to be tired anymore.”
I let myself stay there, pressed to his chest, wrapped and held. I thought about moving my hand to his belt, about returning something, about making myself useful, but before I could he caught my wrist.
He said, “Not tonight. Tonight, you take the care. You don’t have to give me anything.”
I looked at him, really looked. “I don’t know how to just take.”
He smiled. “You’ll learn. I’ll teach you.”
He shifted, stood with me in his arms, and walked me to the bathroom. He started the tub, tested the water, and set me on the closed toilet seat while he found towels.
When the bath was ready, he lifted me in, his hands gentle under my arms. The water was perfect.
I sank down, let it close over my skin. He knelt behind the tub and washed my hair, so slowly I thought I might fall asleep right there.
He massaged my scalp with his fingers, working shampoo through every strand, then rinsed it clean, using the cup from the sink. He did not rush. He did not speak.
He washed my back, my arms, the backs of my thighs. He left the rest for me.
When I was clean, he helped me out, wrapped me in a towel, and dried me with careful hands. He patted my shoulders, my feet, every inch with the same precision he used for everything.
He dressed me in his shirt, so long it was a dress, then sweatpants. He pulled socks onto my feet. The feeling of being covered, being kept, was better than sex.
He carried me back to his room. He put me in the bed, under the white duvet, and tucked it around me so tight I couldn’t move if I tried.
He got in next to me. He pulled me onto his chest, my head in the hollow between his collarbones.
He said, “Do you want a story?”
I nodded. I didn’t even care how childish it sounded.
He picked up a book from the nightstand. Goodnight Moon.
He read, his voice low, careful, every word a slow drip of honey.
He read about the rose, and the drawing of the sheep, and the man who counted the stars.
Goodnight nobody.
Goodnight mush.
That was me. The mush.
The last thing I remembered was his hand in my hair, stroking slow, his voice saying, “You’re mine, Angela. You’re safe now. You’re good.”
My head was clear.
My heart was calm.
I was his.