Damaged

“You’re damn right that I didn’t want to admit it,” I say. “And no, I don’t have a good handle on my feelings anymore. For all practical purposes, the only emotion I’ve felt for the past four years has been pain. It never stops. Then, I met you.” I’m breathing hard. I feel my chest rise as I speak. I can’t stop the torrent of words flowing out of my mouth. “Things changed. Maybe I didn’t recognize what I felt then, but I do now. I’m a stupid girl who fell in love with her friend, and that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that I’ll lose everything if I tell you. This little patch of happiness will wither and die, and it will be all my fault, because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I’d rather have you as a friend than not at all.”



Peter’s back is rigid, like someone replaced his spine with steel bar. Shocked, wide, eyes look back at me. He doesn’t try to cut me off, and the more I talk, the worse he looks. By the time I finally shut up, Peter looks as if he’s been hit on the side of the head with a board. The only response is a shocked blink.



Screw it. I’m not sitting here waiting for him to reject me. I jump up from the table and walk toward the ladies room. I feel tears building behind my eyes. I barely make it up the staircase and push open the door before big wet tears roll down my cheeks. Clutching the counter, I look up into the mirror. Calm down. I hear that little voice speaking softly inside my head.



“I ruined everything.” I clutch my face and sob into my hands. I don’t want to be alone. I need him, and telling Peter how I feel was the stupidest thing I could have done. Strictland said our friendship was over the line, so I tell him that I love him. What the hell is wrong with me?



I twist on the faucet and splash some water on my face. My crying slows, but my face still feels hot and puffy. When I go back downstairs, I need to act like I’m fine no matter how I feel inside. I need some fresh air, just for a second.



I walk over to the small window and yank the string for the blinds. They pull up quickly and I tug on the window, opening it. My vision is blurry and it’s dark, so I don’t notice until it’s too late. There’s a squirrel clinging to the outside of the window. When I throw it open, the little beast starts to slip. His nails are lodged into the wooden frame, but the rapid movement when I slide the window open knocks him loose. His nails screech as he slides down the glass.



I watch for a moment and realize that it can’t get a grip. We’re on the second floor. A strange impulse pounds through me. He’s going to fall. It’ll be my fault. I can’t be a squirrel killer.



I shriek and stomp my feet—as if that will help—and shove my arms out the window to try and catch the little creature. The squirrel falls into my hands. My heart is about to explode. When the squirrel touches me, my brain shoots warning message and before I realize what I’m doing, I’m yanking my hands back inside. The squirrel clings to my arm.



I scream like someone is killing me and hop up and down, trying to get him to let go. When that doesn’t work, I scream louder and spin in circles, whipping around as fast as I can, hoping the squirrel flies off. I only stop when he slides down my arm and his claws run out of skin to grab. I watch the animal sail across the room and smack into the wall.



At the same time that happens, the bathroom door flies open. Peter is standing there, ready to punch someone when a frightened squirrel darts between his legs. Peter glances down, surprised. He turns on his heel and watches it run down the hall. Screams erupt a moment later.



Peter looks up at me. I’m holding my clawed arm with my hand. My bottom lip quivers and sobs bubble up from inside of me. I can’t stop crying. I feel so stupid, so incredibly foolish. Peter walks to me, smiling and pulls me into his arms. For a moment, he just holds me. His fingers tangle in my hair and he keeps me tightly nuzzled to his chest.



When Peter lets go, he looks down at my arm. The scratches aren’t deep. “Did it bite you?” I shake my head and wipe the tears away. Peter is trying so hard not to smile. “What happened? Were you guys fighting over a stall?”



Tears are still in my eyes, but the smile on his face makes me smile, too. I thump my fist into his chest. “We weren’t fighting over a stall! I opened the window to get some air. There was a squirrel. When I pulled the window open, I thought he was going to die, so I caught him… and then I freaked out a little bit.”



Peter tries not to smile. He tries to keep a straight face and not laugh, but he’s doing a terrible job. He takes my head between his hands and looks me in the eye. “You’re all right? No rabies? No serial killer squirrels hiding in one of the stalls?”



“Shut up. You would have screamed, too.” I twist out of his grip and swipe at him.



Peter laughs, really laughs. It shakes his whole body and tears form in his eyes. He rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes and says, “I would have. No doubt.”



“Then why are you laughing?” I’m pouting. I don’t mean to, but I’m an emotional lunatic. We hear someone scream and then a crash. They still haven’t caught the little beast. Damn squirrel.



“Because this is the kind of thing that would only happen to you. You’re at the best restaurant in town and get attacked by a squirrel.” He starts laughing again.



I fold my arms over my chest; the impulse to laugh with him is too strong. I smirk, saying, “When we retell it, let’s just say it was a bear.”



That makes him laugh harder. The two of us stand in the ladies room way too long, leaning into each other and laughing. By the time we go to leave, my ribs hurt from giggling so much.



The restaurant apologizes over and over again. They hate that I was attacked by a rodent in their bathroom. They comp our meal, and give us a ton of gift cards so we’ll come back. The manager is worried that we’ll tell everyone that they have animal problems, even though I have no intention of mentioning this to anyone for as long as I live.



Peter and I return to his car. On the way back to the dorm, he asks me if I have stuff to take care of my cuts. I don’t.



“I have a first aid kit at my place. Let’s patch you up and then I’ll take you home.”



“Your place?” I ask, and glance over at him. He still hasn’t said anything about my, I fell in love with my best friend thing. I’m hoping he’ll never mention it again. I feel stupid enough as it is. I tease, “You’re not asking me up for coffee again, are you?”



He laughs. “No, but you can’t leave that cut untreated. You’ll grow a tail or something. Besides, it’s on the way to your dorm.”



I nod. I go to his place. I don’t realize what will happen. I don’t realize any of it.



CHAPTER 19



“The scrape looks superficial,” Peter says, holding my arm and examining the cuts gently. There are nine angry red pin-sized scrapes down one arm. We are sitting in his bathroom. The medicine cabinet is open. It’s the first time I’ve been in his house since the night I met him. Everything is put away now. Peter is very neat. I’m shocked that he even has a kit like this.



I still feel silly. Who gets attacked by small wildlife creatures? I’m the antithesis of Snow White. “It probably wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t scream like a lunatic and launch the squirrel at the wall. I freaked out on his little ass.”



Peter is grinning when looks up at me. “Yes, you did. I heard you yelling in the dining room. By the time I threw the door open, I was sure someone was killing you. Then, I see you launch a small animal across the room.” He laughs. “I have the shower scene from Psycho in my head, except Norman Bates is a squirrel. You better watch your step. When he gets out of that restaurant, he’s gonna tell all his buddies.” Peter’s shoulders are shaking. He’s trying so hard not to laugh.



I’m grinning. Norman the Squirrel with his little knife is kind of funny. “Jerk.”



“Hold still. Odds are this’ll sting like a bitch.”



“Do bitches really stin—” I stop asking stupid questions and let out a slew of swear words. “What the hell is that? Acid?” I rip my arm away. My skin burns as if he set it on fire.



Peter reaches for my hand and yanks it back out. “Baby.” He holds a bottle of stuff over my arm again. There’s a towel under my elbow. The liquid runs down my arm and onto the towel.



Peter pours it quickly, again. My body tenses and I grit my teeth. I’m ready for it this time. My jaw locks, but I nearly fall over when Peter lowers his head and blows on the bubbling cuts. His pink lips are pursed and he blows on my skin. The gentle rush of air chases away the sharp burn and makes my skin cold. I forget to lock my jaw. I’m still tense, but the reason has changed. Peter doesn’t seem to realize what he’s done. He’s still grinning and looks up at me.



No, no, no. I have a deer in the headlights look on my face. I don’t move. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. Peter’s eyes darken. He doesn’t look away. My heart pounds louder. I think he can hear it. Suddenly, I notice my breathing, the way I’m taking shallow shaky breaths. Peter’s fingers remain on my wrist, holding my arm out across my knee. I’m lost in his gaze. I feel a magnetic pull toward him, towards his lips. My skin is charged from his touch. I can’t stand it. Sucking in air, I turn my face.



I can’t do it.



I can’t kiss him.



I shouldn’t even be here.



Peter’s voice is deeper than usual. “That should help. Let me get the antiseptic, and cover it up. Then, we can take you home.” He drops my wrist and stands up. Peter is staring at the little bottle, but he doesn’t take it in his hands. Instead, he stands there, unblinking. He breathes in deeply and lets the air rush out from between his lips. I feel like I’m watching porn. My pulse is racing and I’m too warm. I can’t look away. I don’t want to.



Peter runs his hands through his hair and grabs the ointment. “Here, this should help it heal faster.” He dabs it on my arm. My stomach curls at his light touch. I watch Peter as he presses his finger to the scrapes. It makes me shiver so badly that I yank my arm away.