Clara

Intense.

Strong.

Muscle-y.

Hot.

I love Cruise’s arms.

I love the way they hold me like they never want to lose me.

He has visible scars he doesn’t talk about. They’re reflections of the scars he hides inside, and make me feel less alone.

But how? How does he do that when he doesn’t know? He doesn’t know about the abuse.

Or the scars I hide on the inside.

I’m mortified I prayed in front of him like that, a panic attack taking over, from the simple utterance of a swear word. It was easy to restrain at the bookstore in the light of day. But after sex, my emotions are too raw, and the habits too strong for me to fight.

He won’t want me.

Dirty.

He called me dirty for the way I talked to him sexually. He just hasn’t seen that I’m dirty from wear, tear, and abuse.

Filthy girl.

Tainted whore.

Sullied bitch.

Defiled.

That’s what I am. That’s what my father made me.

Will Cruise still want me when he discovers the truth?

No.

Why would he?

But he’s here. He stayed.

Why?

Maybe he sees me more than what my father left behind. Maybe he sees the little fragments left of me. Maybe . . .

He pulls the sheet higher around my back, and whispers into my hair, “You’re cold.”

“I’m sorry about earlier.” I press my cheek to his chest.

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I’m trying to be normal. For you. I’m trying, but I’m failing.”

“Hey, look at me.” When I do, he says, “You don’t have to be anything you’re not. What’s normal anyway?”

Tucking my head into the crook of his arm that’s wrapped around me, I close my eyes knowing this won’t last forever. My instability will drive him away. As it should. Before he goes, I still wonder. “I don’t know your last name.”

Seeming to hesitate, I wait. He finally whispers, “Cristley.”

“Like . . .” I pop up, my hand on his chest, my hair falling to the side as I look at him.

Before I can ask specifics, he says, “Yeah.”

“I know your mom. From school. She’s . . .” Yikes. Beatrice Cristley is nothing like Cruise. I try the name out to see if it fits the man I’ve come to know. “Cruise Cristley.”

“John.”

“Who’s John?”

“I am. My real name is John.” I feel it, his hold on me tightening as if this admission would send me running. As if he believes he has to hold on to me or I’ll leave him.

I’m tempted to tell him the name I used to be called. I don’t. I buried it with my father who destroyed all the pretty parts every time he uttered it.

“You’re tense.” He maneuvers so he’s lying on his side and we’re facing each other. Even though it’s the middle of the night, there’s just enough light to see it reflected from his comforting eyes. The tips of his fingers run along my jaw and down my neck. By the time he reaches my hip, my arm is covered in goose bumps. Pulling the sheet that had fallen back into place, he says, “We said we never have to talk about the stuff in our past, the stuff that changed who we were into who we are, but if you want to, I’ll listen. I’m here for you.”

I touch his lips with my finger, addicted to how they move, how they kiss, how they feel against mine. I want to kiss him now and end this conversation before it heads where I don’t want to ever take him. Never to that place. But I realize it’s too late. My habits haven’t died. My behavior will scare him. I already have.

So will the truth.

I’ll lose him now or I’ll lose him later.

Either way, I lose him.

Leaning forward I kiss, not the lips that I love the feel of, but above the heart that’s too big even for his large frame. His fingers weave into my hair and I want to stay in the safety of his arms, live there endlessly. After placing a kiss on my messed-up hair, he asks, “Were you a virgin? Is that why you’re upset right now? Did I hurt you? I didn’t mea—”

I balk as my body sobs.

As naïve as I am on how real relationships work, normal relationships, even I know they don’t work without honesty.

My heart starts to race. My skin feels cold, my hands clammy. I try to tame my panting breath, but I know I can’t. This is my normal. Honesty means showing him the dark side of myself as much as the light. “My father is dead.”

Big hands are pulling me close, trying to protect my body from where my thoughts are already headed. It’s too late. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“I’m not.”

Cruise should know before he’s mired in my life, a life that’s being rebuilt, recreated minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. I was stupid for thinking I could be normal, that I had a right to be happy. It’s too soon for that. The right thing to do is to tell him, to save him the trouble of dealing with the catastrophe that is me. He needs to know before I become too desperate for him to stay. Before my heart will be broken into a thousand pieces when he walks out the door. Taking a deep, but jagged breath, it’s time . . . “I was raped.”

The muscles of his body tense beside me and he stops breathing. Maybe I do too. I’ve lost track of air as my mind dizzies with the repercussions of my confession. The floodgates have been opened, so the words pour out, “Repeatedly . . . by my father.”

My backside is grabbed, my father encouraging his friends to touch me. The men make jokes about violating me like my father does as they push me between them. I see the look in their eyes, the hunger as if I’ll taste better than their wives. They look at me the same way my father does when he’s mad. Hate-fueled.

In the darkest of hours, with the weight of the world I hated holding me down physically, stealing any power I thought I had, my mind would drift to pleasant places. My thoughts free from the body being abused, free to travel to faraway lands like Heaven. I used to believe that was as far from the life I was leading that one could go. I knew I was too sullied for such beauty, but it was a nice retreat.

After I was left alone again, I reached for the bear my mom gave me when I was little. He was hers and missing an eye, but he gave me something to hold on to when I had nothing left.

. . . This room has always been my sanctuary, my father’s presence never tainting it. The insurance money from his death is the only reason I own it. For the first time since I moved in, it’s starting to feel tainted with my words floating in the open. I don’t know if Cruise is breathing again. My hands haven’t stopped shaking, but I dare to look up, to check on him.

I’m greeted with anger, not directed at me, but somewhere far off. His anger I can deal with. It’s the empathy I can’t. I never want him to feel sorry for me. I just want to be treated how he has already—like a girl he likes, maybe a woman he can love one day. Unless it’s already too late for that.

Strands of hair are wrapped around his clenching fist, but I don’t fight it. The pull feels good. It takes away some of the pain I’ve kept hidden inside, distracting it to other places. Keeping my head steady, I hold his gaze, absorbing the fury spiraling in his eyes. I’m more powerful just from being near him, not helpless or alone. “If he was alive, I’d kill him.”

He would, too. I can tell. Releasing me, he pushes up, and sits. Scrubbing his hands over his face, a sigh travels from his chest and out. “Fuck. I’m sorry.” All of my worries, my fears, are put to rest when he reaches over and his hand rests on the back of my neck, large enough to cover it. His heated anger sinks into my skin. It’s not aimed at me, but in defense of me. I know I shouldn’t get off on it, but his anger is intoxicating.

The rage dissipates and only awe remains.

Awe . . . of me? “You’re so goddamn amazing, Clara. You’re here. You’re living.” Bringing me closer, he holds me in his arms. “You survived when so many wouldn’t. I’m so proud of you.”

Peering into his eyes, it’s so easy to get caught up in his emotions, to take his words at face value. “You are?”

A small smile on his face lightens the load on my heart. “You’re incredible, Dove. You shared something that’s so much of who you keep to yourself, a pain I can only imagine never goes away. I haven’t shared what I’ve gone through with anyone, not even the psychologist I saw a few times. You’re so fucking brave.”

His breath grows heavy as I’m cradled in his arms. He continues, “Your beauty attracted me the second I saw you, but getting to know you little by little has been inspiring. You . . . survived.” He taps my head and my heart and then places a kiss on my forehead. “Fuck, I admire you so much. You are so much more than a past that someone else created for you.” He sits up, horror crossing his dark features. “Fuck, I hurt you when we had sex, didn’t I? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“No. No. It felt good. You felt good. You helped me. You don’t even know how much tonight has meant to me.” I turn, crossing my legs in front of me. Our hands clasp, our fingers folding together. “I should have told you before we did anything, but I wanted it to be natural, not careful, not treated with kid gloves. I thought I wanted to have sex to get over it, to get over some imaginary hurdle in my mind. If I could, I would be normal, like everyone else. That’s not what happened though. You treated me with care, but you wanted me. Me. The girl I thought no one would want. But you did.”

“I do.” Bringing my hand to his mouth, he kisses it not worrying about being gentle or asking, giving with his heart as much as his body. “How do you feel now?”

I smile. “Beautiful.” Closing my eyes, I try to capture the words of how I truly feel. I’ve never had someone feel that way for me, so protective, putting my needs before his. “Now that I think about it, I don’t want normal. I want this, whatever this is, and it’s because of you.” Closing the inches that seem too vast, I kiss his lips just off center, and remain long after our lips stop moving. “John. John. John.”

He responds with hands showing their strength as he lifts me by the hips and settles me on his lap. His erection is hard, pressing against my pelvis. Lips open, tongues caress, and bodies become slick as we kiss, pushing our problems into another day. I never thought I’d want someone sexually, but I want him. My body can’t hide how he makes me feel as my nipples brush against his chest and I start to move up and then slowly down on him. “Make love to me, John.”

“Cruise,” he breathes into my mouth. “That’s who I am. That’s who I am with you.”

It’s the first crack I’ve seen in his emotional armor. He’s warned me of the bad that resides inside him, and I can see a glimpse of that now. Not bad, but troubled. Alone. I only see his good. Cruise is more fitting than John, and I like that he has a preference for me.

After he slips on a condom, we make love—slow and steady with me on top, him guiding my hips. Each glide hits that space deep in my center that only he will ever reach. As a pressure builds from our connection, I start to move on my own, yearning for release.

My moans are throaty and foreign to me, much like how he makes me feel. Feels so good that when we’re lying in the middle of the night, our bodies as exhausted as our minds, I whisper, “I don’t know who you are outside these walls, but I like who we are together.”

He kisses my head, owning as much of my heart as he does my body already. “Me too.” Two heartbeats pass and he adds, “Get some sleep, Dove.”

This time I let my mind drift with the good that manages to keep the bad at bay.

* * *

Four hours of consecutive sleep is the most I’ve had in years. I peek at the clock over Cruise’s chest: 6:04 a.m.

My alarm will go off in ten minutes. I reach over and switch it off to let him sleep. My bear catches my eyes, but I don’t need comfort from him, not when I have Cruise to keep me safe.

Reaching over, I’m not covert enough. I’m wrangled into an embrace and my shoulder is covered in kisses. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Amazing, but sore,” I reply with a light laugh. I have no filter around him. I’m undecided if that’s a good or bad thing.

Reaching down, he rubs my hip. “I’m sorry . . . I’m so big.”

I burst out laughing. “Why do I get the distinct feeling you are absolutely not sorry?”

“Yeah, I’m not. Not at all.”

And that’s when I realize something. I feel . . . calm.

Happy.

This is what happy feels like. It feels like mornings after sex. It tastes like Cruise.