Chapter Six #2
He was more beautiful than I had imagined.
His features were serene, almost angelic as the moonlight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the curve of his lips.
And though I wondered what color his eyes were—were they blue like the summer sky, or brown like autumn leaves, or perhaps green like the forest canopy above us?
—I knew it wouldn’t matter. I could memorize every detail of his face, trace every line and contour, but it would change nothing.
Because he was in love with someone else. And no amount of wishing, or hoping, or giving myself to him could ever change that simple, devastating fact.
He was in love with a woman named Julie.
I stood slowly, my legs shaky and unsteady beneath me, trembling from more than just the physical exertion.
I turned away from him, forcing myself to put one foot in front of the other.
I didn’t look back. I couldn’t allow myself that weakness.
If I did, if I caught even a glimpse of his face in the moonlight, I would break all over again.
I would crumble into a thousand pieces right there on the lawn, and I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to put myself back together.
I walked back toward the house, each step feeling heavier than the last, my bare feet silent on the damp grass, my thin nightgown clinging to my skin like a second layer.
The fabric stuck to me in places, revealing everything and hiding nothing.
The night air was cool against my flushed cheeks, a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from my body, and I could feel the dampness between my thighs.
A physical reminder of what had just happened, of what I had given away so freely, so desperately.
Of the line I had crossed that could never be uncrossed.
The back door opened with a soft creak that seemed deafening in the stillness, the hinges protesting my return. I stepped inside, expecting the house to be dark and silent, wrapped in the peaceful ignorance of sleep.
But it wasn’t.
Faith was leaning against the kitchen counter, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, her expression unreadable in the dim light filtering through the window above the sink.
She looked tired, exhausted, really, but alert, like she had been waiting up for me.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she was still wearing the same faded sweatshirt she’d had on earlier in the day.
The second I saw her standing there, something inside me shattered completely.
I didn’t think. I just ran to her, crossing the kitchen floor in what felt like both an instant and an eternity.
She caught me without hesitation, her arms wrapping around me tight and sure, pulling me close like she had been prepared for this exact moment.
I buried my face in her shoulder and cried.
Quiet, broken sobs that I tried desperately to muffle against the soft fabric of her sweatshirt so I wouldn’t wake everyone up.
My whole body shook with the effort of keeping the sounds in, of not falling apart completely right there on the kitchen floor.
She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t say anything at all, not even a whispered reassurance.
She just held me, steady and solid and warm, one hand stroking my hair with gentle, rhythmic motions, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles on my back.
Her chin rested lightly on top of my head, and I could feel her breathing, calm and even.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she whispered after a long moment, her voice barely audible in the quiet kitchen.
I nodded against her shoulder, still unable to speak, my throat too tight and raw to form words.
She led me down the hallway to her room, her arm wrapped securely around my waist, supporting me when my legs threatened to give out beneath me.
My knees felt weak and unsteady, like they might buckle at any moment.
She closed the door behind us with a soft click and went straight to the bathroom, turning on the faucet and starting a hot bath.
The sound of rushing water filled the silence between us.
Steam began to fill the small space, curling up toward the ceiling in wispy tendrils, and I stood there in the middle of the room, trembling uncontrollably, my arms wrapped tight around myself. I couldn’t seem to stop shaking, no matter how hard I tried.
Faith came back to me and gently took my hands in hers, her touch warm and reassuring.
She pulled them away from my body, coaxing me to let go of the protective barrier I had created.
She lifted the hem of my nightgown carefully and helped me pull it over my head, moving slowly, deliberately, as if I were made of glass and might shatter at any sudden movement.
And then she stopped.
Her hands froze, and I heard her sharp intake of breath.
I saw her eyes drop, saw the way her expression shifted—shock, then understanding, then something soft and sad. Her gaze lingered for just a moment too long, and I knew she had seen it.
Blood.
There was blood dripping down between my legs, dark against my pale skin, mixed with traces of him. A slow trickle that felt like proof of something broken, something I couldn’t take back.
She said nothing. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t ask.
Didn’t demand explanations or details I wasn’t ready to give.
She just took my hand, her fingers warm and steady around mine, and led me to the bathtub.
Her movements were careful, deliberate, as she turned on the tap and tested the temperature with her wrist. She helped me step over the edge and into the hot water, one hand supporting my elbow, the other hovering near my back.
I sat down slowly. The heat stung the tender places, sending sharp little jolts through my body that made me wince.
I wrapped my arms around my legs, pulling my knees to my chest, as I tried to make myself smaller.
My tears came again, silent and steady, and I let them fall into the water.
They mixed with the steam rising around me, disappearing into something I couldn’t see anymore.
Faith kneeled beside the tub and picked up a washcloth, dipping it into the water and wringing it out.
The sound of water trickling back into the tub was the only noise in the quiet bathroom.
She washed me gently, carefully, her touch tender and reverent, as if I were something precious that might break.
She started with my shoulders, then moved down my arms, washing away the grime and sweat and tears.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t try to comfort me with empty words or platitudes that would ring hollow in my ears.
She just took care of me.
When the water began to cool, she helped me out of the tub and wrapped a towel around me, drying me off with the same gentle care she had shown while bathing me.
She patted my skin dry, careful not to rub too hard, her movements slow and deliberate.
She pulled a clean nightgown over my head—one of hers, soft from years of washing— and led me to her bed, then pulled back the covers and helped me climb in.
The sheets were cool and crisp against my skin.
Then she climbed in beside me, curling around me from behind, her arm draped over my waist. Her body was warm against mine, solid and real and grounding. I could feel her breath on the back of my neck, steady and calm.
“Did he know you were a virgin?” she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder might shatter what little composure I had left.
I shook my head slowly, feeling the weight of shame and regret pressing down on my chest. My tears were still falling, hot and relentless, streaming down my cheeks and soaking into the fabric of her pillow as she tightened her arm around me protectively and pressed a gentle, tender kiss to the back of my head, the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn’t.
“It’s going to be okay,” she whispered softly into my hair, her breath warm against my scalp. “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay.”
And she held me close while I cried myself to sleep, her fingers stroking my hair in slow, soothing motions, anchoring me through the storm of emotions that threatened to pull me under.