2. Chapter Two #4
His hand shakes, but his grip on the handles is as firm as the one he had on the door before.
His look is just as firm when he fixes it on me, almost daring me to admit that this was a trick.
He stares, waiting for me to laugh or pull the bag back.
Maybe even waiting for me to punish him for daring to believe he’d be worthy of a gift like this, regardless of not even knowing what’s inside.
The determination and bravery vanishes the instant I let go, giving way to cautious confusion as he realizes it's not a trick. I force myself to take a step back in the hope that it’ll make him feel safer.
He seems a little less wary when he clocks the movement, but he’s still nowhere near comfortable with my presence.
He’s gripping the bag’s handles so tight now that it must be painful.
I push my hands into the pockets of my sweatpants to keep myself from reaching out and easing the grip.
That’d be unprofessional on about ten different levels, not to mention likely traumatizing to someone whose bodily autonomy was just handed back to them after years of abuse.
It’s probably best I cut this short and get the fuck out of here.
“You might have noticed that there’s pre-stocked shampoo and conditioner in all of the bathrooms, but I figured you might appreciate something that’s actually meant for your type of hair.
I know if I didn’t have the right stuff that it’d be a nightmare.
Not that we have the same, obviously, but neither of us are white boys, you know? Don’t have that easy white boy hair.”
He blinks at me again before carefully pulling the two handles apart so he can peer into the bag.
There’s no reason for me to continue talking. My job is done. Overly done, at this point. No one else even saw my face when their bag was delivered, much less received a rambling speech.
And yet…
“I didn’t know what room you’d end up in, so I couldn’t pre-stock these, but I didn’t want to put them in your welcome bag in case they broke open and ruined your things, so I waited until you got settled and… well, now here they are.”
I rock on my feet, trying not to let my anxiety build as we stand in the growing silence. I should go now. There’s no reason for me not to go.
Except he’s looking wary again, which is the last thing I want. So maybe I’ll just, you know, explain myself. Real quick. Without rambling.
Don't fucking ramble, I tell myself.
“There should be everything you need in there, plus a shit ton you don’t.
I wanted you to have options. I mean, I didn’t even know for sure what you’ll need.
Obviously. And some of it won’t be needed until you grow your hair out.
If you decide to grow your hair out. You don’t have to grow your hair out.
I know they kept it cut short at the compound, to make it easier.
For maintenance or whatever. But you’re not there anymore.
No one can tell you what to do with your hair.
Or with your… anything. You’re - you know. Free. To do. Whatever. With your hair.”
I gesture awkwardly toward his head. Why can’t I shut up?
“Or free to do whatever with-” and another gesture, now head to toe.
Why has no one come by and killed me yet?
This is terrible. “-whatever you want to do. Or… whatever. Wow. I’ve said whatever way too many times.
You think that’s a record? Just ignore it.
Ignore me, to be honest. I am completely aware I’m rambling and I assure you that it will stop any second now. ”
I wince as I process my own words. How much of a dick can I be for pointing out that I can’t stop talking - and wishing I could - when he hasn’t been able to speak for months?
I’m about to launch headfirst into an apology - likely a rambling one, at that - when I realize he doesn’t look upset. He’s not quite smiling, not with his mouth at least, but his eyes are brighter, the skin around them wrinkled a little.
It’s a rush, that little spark of light in him. Better than energy drinks and little orange pills and nicotine. Better than candy, sticky sweet and bright on my tongue.
It’s addicting.
Which is probably why I’m talking again, without even fucking realizing it.
“-just thought you deserved to be able to control your hair, if you wanted to. You get to control everything now. I know that might feel overwhelming, it did for m-” and for once, I manage to stop my own voice before it’s too late.
Jesus, was I just about to talk to him about my own recovery as a survivor?
I’ve never done that. The closest I’ve gotten is with Adam, when I was young and surly, and that was only because he plied me with candy and new video games if I participated in our sessions.
Maybe I should step away from that rush. I think I probably need some sleep. Definitely at least a break from work.