29. Chapter Twenty-nine #3
I’ve never been able to really look at his fingers before. His hands, yes. Usually because he’s signing. Even then, I could only register that they’re big and they move easily, fluidly, like he’s dancing with them.
His fingers are long. Slim.
There’s a word I want to use for them. Something that means - it sort of means beautiful, but in a fancier way?
What’s that word?
I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. It’s okay. I won’t let this ruin the moment. I’m telling him about sancocho and he’s hearing about the corn and his fingers are nice and it’s okay.
It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s-
“Sancocho?” he asks, but he says it like san-cow-cho, like the cow that goes moo.
I can’t help but smile.
Until I realize I can’t correct him.
“Oh, no, no, hey, don’t be sad please. Fuck. Um. I said it wrong, didn’t I? I’m going to just keep saying it until I get it right. Will you give me a thumbs-up when I get it right? Please?”
That’s… okay.
Okay, yeah, that works.
I nod.
He smiles. Warm again.
I carefully smile back.
Warmer.
It takes him three tries, which is impressive because I wasn’t aware there were even that many ways you could try to say this particular arrangement of letters.
Then again, maybe I shouldn’t judge, considering I can’t say any of them at all.
I wait for that to hurt, but then he says it the right way and it's - it's the name of my favorite meal, the meal that made my mamá smile about home. It's that name, said in the sound of his voice, that just might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
“Yeah?” he asks before I can even give him my thumbs-up. He already knows that was the right pronunciation. Probably because of how hard I’m smiling. Hard enough to hurt. A good kind of hurt.
I would hurt forever if it meant staying right here, with the warmth of his smile on my skin and the sound of him in my ears.
The best part, though? I don’t even have to hurt. Ace wouldn’t want me to hurt.
I get to have this - this warmth and the sound of him and the way he listens even when I can't speak - and I don’t have to feel anything but good.
Not good.
Better than good.
I put a hand up, a finger, to tell him I need one second. Then I gesture for him to give me the notebook.
Except I’m already standing up because what I want to do requires us to be close to each other.
He looks like that puppy again, all big eyes and big smile, perked up and attention set right on me.
I kneel, and it isn’t wrong, it isn’t scary, I have one second to think, wait, no, I don’t want- and then I remember that I do want, and I get to decide.
So, I kneel. I take the notebook. I flip to the front cover, to the feelings chart, and I start to tap.
He says the words for me as I do.
“Happy, optimistic, playful, peaceful, hopeful, accepted, respected, amused, joyful,” I pause on the final word of the whole section, finger hovering. Liberated. I don’t feel it yet. There’s still so much wrong with me. So much bad. I’m still a ghost.
I don’t think ghosts can really be liberated. I think the whole point of being a ghost is that you’re trapped. That instead of living, all you can do is haunt. There’s nothing liberating about that.
“Not yet, huh?” he asks, his voice so soft. “It’s alright if you don’t feel that one yet. It takes time. Matt? I want you to know it takes a lot of time.”
I look up at him, my throat hurting, my eyes burning.
He lifts a hand like he’s going to touch me, touch my face, then squeezes it into a fist and drops it. He takes a breath that shakes as much as mine is starting to.
“Can I make you a promise?”
I blink and no tears spill over, but I can tell it’s going to happen soon.
I nod.
“I’m not going anywhere, no matter what, unless you tell me to, until-” he taps his fingertip against the word. Liberated. “-you feel that. I don’t care how long it takes. I don't care if you never do. As long as you'll have me, here I am, okay?”
I blink.
A tear spills.
He leans in, not enough to feel too close, but enough to know he means this, to know this is important. Enough for him to look me right in the eye, so close I can see those freckles of his again, and say, “Do you believe me?”
I do.
I nod because I do.
And he smiles.
Warm.
And I smile back, shaky, small.
Warmer.
“Tell me about sancocho? And then I’ll tell you about the soy candles. And then we should listen to some kickass music and eat some candy.”
I laugh, just a little bit. More of a shaky breath paired with a firmer smile.
He smiles so big, then.
So warm.
I smile back, hard enough to hurt again.
Everything is so very warm.
Time moves differently for me.
Then Casey moves back to the safehouse and I find out he’s been struggling, dangerously struggling, and I give him a big hug, and the others tell him we all love him and are here for him, and even though I threw up after trying to force myself to take a bite of the mashed potatoes at dinner, and even though our next group therapy session sends me spiraling into only, only, only, and even though I end up back in Ace’s office to hide, I realize something.
There’s a chance I’ve been wrong.
Maybe I’m not so behind after all.