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I wake up disoriented. My head throbs, my bad leg is aching, and the room is plunged in darkness. I catalogue the aches, the shades of the dark, the shadows in my thoughts. Where am I? Always the first question.

No, that’s a lie. The first one is always, Who am I? What am I?

Why am I alive?

But I’ve trained myself to skim over those questions these days. If only I could train myself to skim other things, other needs.

She’s asleep, her arms folded over my leg, her head resting on them. So close. Pressed to me, warm and here, so much here.

My hand hovers over her head, that dark hair blending with the dimness of the room, the strands warm, so warm and soft, tickling my palm and fingers. I haven’t often in my life touched a woman’s hair. Anyone’s hair, really. In the house where I grew up, there were no pets and no time to play, certainly no damn aimless touching.

Touching aids the devil’s work, my mom always said. I sometimes wonder if my folks conceived me through furtive glances and careful conversation. Wouldn’t surprise me.

My hand moves, as if of its own volition, fingertips dragging through loose, silky curls. A scent of flowers rises. Roses, maybe. I’ve always liked gardens, and plants, and light. I never got those at home. Missed them when I was deployed, like I missed her, and—

“Griff?”

Her soft voice startles me so much I don’t lift my hand immediately. Her eyes glimmer in the dimness, lights reflected in a black lake. She starts to lift her head off my leg and that breaks the weird spell.

Jerking, I snatch my fingers away from her warmth and hiss when the wound in my chest wakes up, too. “Fuck.”

Bitter, sharp pain shoots down nerves, setting them on fire, and all I can do is close my eyes and fight for breath, muscles locking and teeth grinding at the consuming, overwhelming impact.

“God, I’m sorry.” She’s scrambling up and away, the spot on my thigh where her head lay smarting cold. “What did I do?”

“Not you,” I grind out, my hands clenching uselessly on my thighs. Maybe if I clench them and unclench them hard enough, the pain will subside.

“I was out, and I came in and saw you there and I just thought...”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I manage through my clenched teeth, and it comes out as an animal growl.

She flinches.

She always does. I speak knives instead of words, it seems, and her skin is soft, easy to cut.

But this time, she doesn’t walk away, like she usually does after I’ve been an ass to her, after my violent words have cut her. She stays her ground.

“I saw you,” she repeats, “asleep in that chair, and thought you looked... lonely.”

My cutting words fail me. I never thought to apply that word to myself. Nobody ever has. A loner, sure. Solitary. A self-appointed hermit. A fucking asshole.

Who’d want to be near me anyway?

I’m still staring at her, I realize, and during the distraction caused by her statement, the pain has gone down a notch, letting me breathe again. “What?” I finally manage.

“Forget it.” But her eyes are stormy, and it reminds me of the girl I used to secretly watch as I worked in her parents’ garden. A girl with eyes like fire, and a face like an angel.

I’ve always loved her, I realize with a start. From the beginning. There was something about her that made me smile and ache at the same time.

“Look,” she says, “I know you don’t want me around.”

“It’s your apartment,” I say automatically, because it’s true. It’s her world and I’m the interloper, the intruder. The stone in her shoe, the thorn in her side.

“But I’m going to stay,” she goes on, stubbornly, small chin raised defiantly, “until you’re well.”

Until I’m well. What the fuck?

“You mean until I’m dead,” I mutter.

Her mouth twists, and her brows draw together. “You will get well,” she says again, like it’s magic, a ritual where you only need to repeat the mantra enough times to make it come true. “Do your parents even know you’re here? Maybe you should call them. Maybe they’re worried.”

I blink at her, still too slow, still distracted, because it’s obvious she wants me to be cured, to live, but why? Does she feel so guilty for leaving me? “They’re not worried.”

“You don’t know that.”

I try to gentle my tone, but it still comes out sharp. “I do.”

It doesn’t come easy, this holding back game, when all my life I was taught to yell instead of discuss, snarl instead of speak. The only time I’ve ever managed to be gentle was around her, because she gentled me, and where did that get me?

Nowhere.

My family disowned me, apparently. No clue if that means I won’t inherit when they die or just won’t get any help now. The now is more pressing than eternity, though, the now that contains me, and my books, and Sophie. And I’d like not to have her in debt if I check out without warning. The docs may seem optimistic, but my body is tired.

My thoughts have hit rock bottom.

Life has dealt me a dark, obscure card, its symbols blurred and unreadable.

“But I do know,” she says and turns to go, but not before I notice her eyes filling with tears. “I know you’ll overcome this obstacle.”

“It’s not an obstacle, goddammit. It’s death.”

She draws a sharp breath. Her face pales.

And my anger fizzles out as quickly as it flared.

I rub the fuzz on my head. “Look, it’s not your fault, Sophie. Me, being like this. It’s not on you. You shouldn’t stay with me because of it.”

“You really don’t know how to tell feelings apart, do you? It’s not guilt, Griff, and it’s not pity!” Turning on her heel, she turns and goes, leaving me to stare after her, confused.

Startled by her vehemence.

“Then what is it?” I mutter, addressing the empty room, long after she’s gone.

She’s right, I probably don’t know how to tell feelings apart. Is it something you learn? Is there a school for it? Are your parents supposed to teach you? Because if so, I’m so fucked. Or maybe it’s something you’re born with, this understanding, and I’m found lacking there, too.

I have a feeling it’s too late for me anyway to figure this out. Not when she’s not going to stay and explain.

I can’t ask for more, and I shouldn’t feel so old with these twenty-two years I’m dragging behind me, but God, I do. They feel like fucking centuries.

Guess it’s just that my time is up.

***

Days and nights blend, merging into gray. The season isn’t helping. Winter has sucked all the color from the world. Sucked the marrow of the world dry. And here I am, standing at the window, leaning on my cane, watching the people hurry across the street, decked out in shades of pale.

“I brought you some lunch,” Sophie says from behind me, and I turn, unable to help myself. I’d seen her cross the street below, heard the door open. Her presence has been burning a hole into my back ever since she entered the apartment. “Or dinner. Did you have lunch?”

It’s afternoon, and no, I didn’t bother.

I don’t say that. “Thanks.”

She’s standing by the sofa, a tray in her hands, her dark hair disheveled by the wind.

Beautiful. I’m blown away by how beautiful she is every time, how even in the darkness I can see her—my darkness, the midnight gloom I’m swimming in, sinking in, brought on by the ravage to my body and mind.

I always see her, and it’s a jolt to my system every single time, how hard I get for her, how much I want her. Like now, that sweet ache between my legs, all the blood rushing south, making me damn stupid with desire.

“Always,” she whispers back, placing the tray on the low table, her cleavage gaping a little when she bends forward, the dark dip between her breasts sending another streak of fiery need through me.

“Always,” I repeat, my brain stilling. “Really.”

Again, I’m left confused, torn apart. “Always.” She says that to me as if it’s nothing.

But she left. She left and didn’t look back, didn’t call or visit for a year. So that “always” is a lie.

Why the lie? How can we be speaking the same language and yet I don’t understand what she means, what she wants?

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“What for?”

“For leaving, last year.”

I shrug, grimace at the pain in my chest—deeper than the wound, the scar, so much deeper, a blade to my fucking heart.

“Marvin,” I say, though his name burns my throat, “is a good guy. And you deserve a good guy.”

“Griff, you’re the best guy I know.”

“The hell you say,” I snarl, so damn mad I think I’ll explode into pieces. “You have no fucking clue.”

There it is, the flinch.

I did it again. Good to know I haven’t lost my touch, my edge, despite the sudden weariness that hits me.

“Griff...”

“I’m going to bed,” I say and lurch away from her, giving her and the couch a wide berth.

It’s her closeness that causes the weird pain, I decide, the confusion, the urge to be careful and give her what she wants, even if what she wants is to take care of me.

I’ve given up. It’s as simple as that.

But she turns with me, comes after me. “I know you’re not angry with me. You can’t make me go.”

“Because it’s your place? Then I’ll go, instead.”

“No, Griff. Because I remember,” she says. “I remember everything you’ve done. Who you are.”

Who I am? She claims she has the answer to the question I ask myself every day.

“I’m better now. You don’t need to stick around.”

“I’m not giving up on you, Griff.”

My throat closes up. I may not be able to tell feelings apart, but I know one thing: I’ve always wanted someone not to give up on me. To care for me.

Never knew how. How to make someone care, or love me. I tried, of course. Did everything I could think of. Tried to figure out how you showed affection, how you asked for it. Parents. Friends.

Girls.

Sophie. Not that I ever asked for her love. I only watched her and wished and hoped and wondered.

But nothing worked. So I figured I was broken.

“Griff...” Her hands twist together.

Broken and useless. My folks wanted me to study.

So I ran away to join the army.

And when I came back, nothing had changed. Except me. I had hardened more. My broken edges sharper and bloodied. Made up my mind love wasn’t for me. I wasn’t created for it. I wasn’t lovable. I was destined to be alone.

She sinks down on the sofa, puts her hands over her face, and something tears inside me, again not physical. Or is it? I can’t tell.

Like I’m torn between turning back to her, pulling her hands off her face to see if she’s crying, ask how to fix that. How to make her happy.

It’s so strong, that feeling, that my breath catches.

I stop at the door. “What happened between you and Marvin?” I ask. “Why did you two break up?”

She never said. I never asked, but maybe that’s why she’s sad? Because she misses him, and I’m not like Marvin. I never was, and can’t figure out how to take away her sadness.

“I left him,” she says, lowering her hands. Her dark eyes turn my way and I look down, to avoid them.

She left him. That takes a longer moment to process, and an irrational surge of anger hits me, mingling with relief.

“You seem to make a habit of that,” I reply, again on autopilot. “Leaving people.”

Here I am again, throwing barbed words at her.

And again her flinch lets me know they found their mark.

“He helped me,” she says quietly.

“Helped you.” Bitterness floods my mouth—or maybe it’s bile and I’m about to throw up. It’s a toss-up.

Because I tried. Tried to help her in everything she needed, but only made it worse, so much worse that she left. And he helped...?

“Helped me understand you.”

I stare at her.

Goddamn, this was a mistake. Every interaction with her has been a mistake. My mistake. I just can’t. “There’s nothing to understand here, sweet cheeks,” I growl. “I’m an asshole, simple as that. Isn’t that what you told me before you went to be with him?”

And god fuck, it shouldn’t matter. Hurt. Sting. Ache. Yeah, I’m antisocial, rude, too quiet—you name it. A ruminating douche. An ungrateful bastard.

Known it all my life.

I should get out of here now, out of the room, out of the apartment and her life before I wound her again, and before she ends me.

Avoiding her has become second nature—so I don’t get why this second nature keeps betraying me lately, rooting me to the spot, making it impossible to look away?

“Marvin,” she says, “helped me understand all the things you did. I don’t think he meant to.”

“Marvin doesn’t know me—” I start.

“Yeah, because he’s an idiot. Do you know...?” Her lips press into an angry line, red spots forming on her cheekbones. “No, you probably don’t. He’s a shit friend. He made fun of you all the time I’ve known him.”

Made fun of me, and got my girl, too—but of course, anyone could have. I’m just not the kind of guy who gets the girl and the happy ending.

“But then,” she goes on, oblivious to the rising level of noise inside my head, “I realized what he was really saying. Like... like that fight we had at the Amy’s party that July. Do you remember it?”

Sure I do. I nod, distracted. “I fucked up.”

“No, Griff. You didn’t. I just wish you’d told me.”

“Told you what? What are you talking about?” I breathe when the memory of that night sucks me in, as memories tend to do lately. “It was a fucking disaster...”

***

It was a warm summer evening and Sophie said a classmate, Amy, was throwing a barbecue party at her parents’ house. Parents were out of town, her boyfriend would be manning the barbecue, there would be drinks and music, and Sophie’s eyes shone with such anticipation I couldn’t say no.

Antisocial bastard. That’s me, remember? I’d also just been discharged from the army, my hurt leg held together by black thread and a prayer, or so it seemed, though the wounds had closed and the bones mended according to the army doctors. Everything was pretty much black and pointless, my life a string of empty days and nightmare-ridden nights, punctuated by my visits to the hospital for physio and to sign my unemployment slip.

Exciting!

Yeah, so fucking not.

But then I met Sophie by chance one day as I left the hospital. She’d been shopping across the street for shoes—black high-heeled pumps, she showed them to me—and she recognized me.

I recognized her, too. I didn’t tell her, so she wouldn’t think I’m a creep. Her face... it was the one face I could never have forgotten. I often thought of her during my deployment.

When others got letters and emails, the occasional phone call when close to a city if the network was up, when Marvin talked to his then girlfriend, I thought of her and imagined receiving her letters, or hearing her voice.

Seeing her face, God. I’d have given anything on some days to see her face, hear her voice. We’d barely talked to each other back when I was her parents’ gardener, but I’d never felt the same way I felt around her with anyone else.

Anyway. She’d asked for my phone number, sent me hers, said we should meet for coffee. She called me. Called again, until I made myself get out of the apartment and go find her.

She made my days brighter. The anticipation of seeing her meant my nights were even shorter than usual, and my dreams mixed up with fantasies where I kissed her, and held her, and fucked her so hard I woke up spent and mad at myself.

We had coffee. We walked about. She made me laugh. I got a job at a hardware store. Thanks to her, I started to live for the first time in my life, even if I wanted... more. From her. With her.

And didn’t know how to ask for it. Do you ask for it? I wanted to talk to Marvin, talk to someone, but Marvin was busy with a new girlfriend, and anyway it’s not like I’ve even been one to open up, especially about feelings.

Why are they so hard to figure out? So... fucking tangled and messed up, like knots in my mind that complicate everything I try to say or do.

Like when Sophie asked if I’d like to go with her to this party, and I said, hell no, and she flinched.

I guess that was the first time I noticed how she flinched with every harsh word I flung at her, and at the world. I didn’t differentiate, back then. Hadn’t realized. My sharp words, my sharp tone, was for everyone. It was what it was. My weapon against reality. My anger aimed at everything.

I had nothing to lose, you see.

But that flinch, it changed everything. I didn’t want to see it again; above all, I didn’t want to be the cause of it.

That’s when I first tried to be gentle. To see her side, see what she wanted, what could make her happy. Tried to give it to her.

I said yes to the party, saw her smile, and it changed me.

But it was a fucking mistake.

Even getting a cab was a damn nightmare. Then there were too many people. Too much noise. And fireworks. Fourth of July, duh. I hadn’t connected the goddamn dots.

The problem was, I’m an asshole. So I lost it, yelled at her, and walked out, then just... walked until I arrived someplace and then walked some more.

Walked all the way home, fucked up my healing leg, fucked up her evening, too, and she didn’t talk to me for weeks.

They felt like years.

During that time, I told myself I was an idiot for thinking I could do this, be alongside someone, someone normal, that I could change enough to be acceptable, to be desirable.

Then she called, and came to see me. Stuck by me, and true to form, I failed her again and again.

That’s what I do. I ruin things. Fuck them up. I remember that evening so clearly, as if it’d happened yesterday.

Just like I remember when I met her for the first time. A slip of a girl, dreams and hope in her eyes.

There is only one thing I want: to love Sophie.

And I don’t know how to do that.