I STAND IN THE RAIN, believing that the elements just might be strong enough to abate.
Tilting my face up to the heavens above, I wonder if they even exist. And if they do, why would God allow this to be happening to me? It’s hard not to hate whatever is in control here, if anything is at all. Maybe this world is nothing more than spun out happenstances.
I’m sick of feeling.
I want to go back to numb.
Headlights beam brightly, and when I turn toward the blinding rays, they slow to a stop and the driver’s side door pops open.
“Are you okay?” Coach Andrews questions in a panic as he runs over to me.
A barreling of thunder crashes overhead.
He quickly tucks me under his arm, shouting over the storm, “Come on,” and leads me over to his SUV.
I want to speak so I can calm his worry, but I can’t. Everything collides with surrealism now that he’s here. When I’m safely inside his car, he walks around to his door, ducking his head against the pouring rain. His car is warm and dry and peacefully silent aside from the pelting of rain and occasional rattle of thunder.
Without a word, he begins to drive.
My clothes are plastered against my skin, and when I look to my side, I catch him running his hand through his soaked hair, leaving it spiked up and messy as droplets fall from the tips and run down the sides of his face. He looks over and catches me staring but still remains unspoken. He stays that way through every stoplight and every turn he takes before pulling into the garage of his brick home. Once inside, the door lowers behind us, and he steps out of the car.
Rankled with nerves, I open my door and follow him inside the house. My heart kicks in a notch too high as we walk into the laundry room.
“Follow me,” he says as he goes into the connecting closet and pulls out some dry clothes from a couple drawers. “Here. Change into these. My bathroom is right through there.” He nods toward the double doors on the other side of the closet.
I take the clothes from him and walk into his large bathroom to see that it wraps around to his bedroom. I shut myself in before stripping out of my wet clothes. I hold up the T-shirt he gave me to my nose and breathe in his scent, closing my eyes and allowing it to seep deeply inside me.
For what?
I don’t know.
But I can’t help myself from seeking comfort everywhere I can manage to find it.
I slip on the shirt and long pajama pants that swallow me up and drag beneath my feet, and then turn to the mirror, only to be met with the face of disparity. There’s no hiding my swollen, bloodshot eyes, so why even bother?
Gathering my clothes, I take them back to the laundry room and toss them in the dryer. I walk through the house, following the soft glow of the fireplace, which leads me into his living room. I watch him toss a couple smaller pieces of firewood in, noting that he’s changed into dry clothing too.
The air is chilly, and with my hair still wet, I shiver and wrap my arms around myself while I stand here awkwardly. When he turns away from the fire, he comes straight to me and guides me to sit on the couch with him.
“Will you tell me what happened?”
His words prick gently against wounds I don’t think I can hide anymore, and I drop my head. His hand reaches behind my back, and he takes my shoulder, pulling me against him. The touch alone weakens what little guard I have left at this point.
I cry silently but so very painfully.
“Talk to me.”
“Everything’s falling apart,” I weep, every word breaking as they come out.
His arms band around me entirely, a comforting strength I’ve been neglected of for far too long, and I bend into him.
I’d melt if it meant I could be closer.
“My mother is hardly ever home,” I admit, needing to rid myself of all the secrets, to free myself of their burdening weight, which is suffocating me. “And when she is, I’m invisible to her. All she does is drink, sleep, and cry. I’m completely alone.”
“You’re not.”
“I am. I lost everything the day I lost my dad.”
“I promise you. You didn’t,” he states with fervency.
I wrap my arms around him, needy for his words to be true, because I can’t bear the thought of being alone any longer. He holds me close to him, never wavering in his strength as I break down in his arms and cry for everything that’s been taken from me. I tell him about my mother’s drinking, about the nights she never comes home, about all the neglected responsibilities I’m forced to take care of, and about the man who dragged her through the front door tonight. I dump everything on to him, and instead of him pushing me away, he asks for more, and so I give it until I’m weak, cried out, and falling asleep.
His fingers comb through my hair with my head resting on his lap while I watch through slow blinking eyes as the fire burns down. The glowing wood pops, releasing a spray of embers, and I let out a deep sigh before my eyes shut for the last time.
His hushed words, “Wrap your arms around me,” stir me, but not enough to fully wake me.
Without opening my eyes, I feel him lift me, and I slip my arms behind his neck, drifting and fading as his steps lull me back to sleep.
A chill creeps across my skin, and I rouse, noticing I’m now in his bed. Grabbing at the blanket, I pull it up under my chin and open my eyes long enough to see the shadow of him standing in front of the bay windows, watching me.
I blink, and he turns away, casting his eyes outside before dreams of my stolen past pull me back under.
A crash of thunder jolts me awake, and he’s right here with me, his thumb dragging beneath my eye.
“Do you always do that?” he murmurs.
“Do what?”
“Cry in your sleep.”
As the haze from waking slowly dissipates, I become aware of how close we are. So much so, that the heat from his body has me warmed to the bone. And yet, my skin pricks in goose bumps.
The longer his eyes hold mine, the harder my heart pounds.
None of it makes sense though, because mine’s broken. It shouldn’t be able to beat, but it does. And when he’s near, it doesn’t just beat strongly, it beats wildly. It drums in my ears, silencing everything around.
Kiss me.
His eyes close, and his brows furrow in the confliction I wish didn’t exist, but it does. It’s everywhere we are, following us, taunting us.
This is wrong.
But when the whole world is spitting its wrongs at me, what the hell is just one more?
I reach my hand up and touch his face, and when I do, he pulls me in and presses his lips onto mine. The blissfully painful butterflies return, awakening all my nerve endings with their fluttering wings. They slice me from the inside, marking every single soft spot as their own, determined to never let me forget this moment by branding me in tender scars.
His hand drops down my back and tugs me against him so tightly that our bodies are flush together, and I swear I can feel his heart against mine.
Lightning strikes, thunder rumbles, and rain falls violently against the window that reflects sinful impulses we can’t deny any longer.
Our legs tangle, and he shifts his body above mine, trapping me safely beneath him as our lips move together. He’s slow and purposeful, painfully so. Another tear slips from my brokenness and drifts down my temple and into my hair. I hold on to him to hold on to myself, but I slip on the heat of his affection, and no matter how hard I fight it off, gravity takes over.
I whimper against his lips, but it doesn’t stop him. He only gathers me in his arms more, squeezing me against him. His kisses soften and deepen, opening my lips with his, tasting the unforgiving flavor of heartache. He licks it away, salving my tongue with his, and I let him as I slide my hands under his shirt, pressing the tips of my fingers into his back.
His kisses drift from my mouth to the salty dew on my cheeks, and I wish he could do more than just kiss them away. I wish he could vanquish them entirely, freeing me of my relentless agony. But we don’t live in a place where wishes come true. I’ve learned that the hard way. So, I take what he’s willing to give, hoping it’ll be enough to mend, but no longer wishing for complete healing where complete healing doesn’t exist.
Some wounds are everlasting.
“Don’t cry,” he breathes against my neck.
“I don’t know how to stop.”
He draws back and looks down at me, but he’s nothing more than a beautiful shadow, illuminated by the flashes of lightning outside. I shudder beneath his touch when his hand slips under the hem of my shirt and trails up my bare flesh and between my breasts.
Covering my severed heart with his hand, he presses down on skin and bone, saying, “Everything you’re thinking is a lie. You need to start listening to this.” I beat into his palm a little harder, a little louder. “This pain won’t last forever. And I’ll tell you that you’re not alone again and again until you believe it, because I’m here with you.”
“You’ll push me away again.”
“I didn’t want to.”
“But you did.”
“You scare me. This,” he says, pressing against my heart again, “scares me. If anyone ever found out—”
“They won’t.”
“They could,” he insists, and I know he’s right. “But no matter how wrong people might perceive this—us—to be, and no matter the risk of them finding out—I want it. I can’t stop thinking about you. Since the day I first saw you . . .” His head drops to mine, and with his eyes closed, he adds, “Tell me you feel it too.”
Moving my hands to his face, I pull his lips to mine and kiss him, and he free falls into me, kissing me back. His hand drags from my heart to my breast, cupping me gently, and for the first time in a long time, I’m able to lose myself in someone else.
“I feel it too.”
With my words, he takes me in his arms and we sink deeper beneath the sheets as we step out of the bounds of the law and finally admit we are too weak to fight this any longer. As the storm crashes from all around, we continue to kiss and hold each other until sleep takes us under.