Damaged by H.M. Ward Page B

doesn’t have to be perfect. The purpose was to—”
    My stomach is crawling up my throat , and ice is dripping down my spine. I’m stupid. I’m so stupid. I could act like it’s nothing and maybe he won’t even read it. But I know if I fight with him, if I try to take the paper back, he’ll know how messed up I am—he’ll know the things on the paper are more than just a creative exercise. Why did I write that?
    Peter’s smile fades as his eyes fall to the page in his hands. He stills. His eyes don’t move. It doesn’t look like he’s reading, but I know he sees it. Peter lifts his gaze slowly. I’m holding one arm with my hand, digging my nails in so hard I’ll draw blood. “Sidney—”
    “I don’t… ” my mouth is open, but the rest of the words won’t come. Deny it. Say that it doesn’t mean anything. Say it . But I can’t. I can’t even look at him. I don’t say anything. I’m trembling even though I try not to move. It’s like a chill has swallowed me whole. I’m frozen. Every muscle in my body is locked. I can’t speak, I can’t move. This shouldn’t have happened. I can’t handle it.
    Peter is staring at me with his eyes so big and blue. If he didn’t see straight through me befor e, he does now. Peter looks at the paper in his hands. His grip is loose, as if the poem might bite him. “I had no idea...”
    “Stop.” My voice shakes. I curse my body, curse the memories that never fade away. “Don’t, okay? It’s nothing.” I don’t look at his eyes. My gaze is locked on Peter’s chest. If I look into his face, I’ll crumble. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a bunch of words on a piece of paper.”
    I t ry to sound as though it’s nothing, as if I write intense poems all the time. I pretend that I didn’t just bleed my heart out onto a sheet of loose leaf. What the fuck is wrong with me? I pretend. I throw on my fake smile and stare at his shoes. I try to lift my gaze, but it feels like there’s an elephant sitting on my head.
    “That’s not what this is.” Peter’ s eyes are locked on my face. I’m breathing too fast, but every time I try to slow it down, it just gets worse.
    “How would you know what it is or what it isn’t?” I look up at him. Mistake . His expression, those haunted blue eyes, the curve of his mouth, the way he looks at me—it’s like he knows. My fingers twitch by my sides. “I’m not standing here. I’m not having this conversation with you. I don’t have to listen to you pretend to care about me.” I turn around to grab my books. I gather them into my arms and head toward the door.
    Just as I’m about to pull it open, Peter says, “I’m not pretending.”
    His eyes are o n my back. My spine is so stiff and so brittle. There’s too much pressure on me. I’m cracking, splintering in a million different directions at once. There’s not one weak spot anymore. Weakness consumes me whole. “Don’t say things like that to me.”
    Peter steps closer. I hear his steps traveling toward me. Slowly, he takes another step. His voice catches in his throat when he speaks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you that night. I wasn’t myself—”
    “Neither was I. It’s fine.”
    “But it’s not.” Peter’s directly behind me. I won’t turn. It doesn’t matter what he says . I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care . “I didn’t know, then. I didn’t know how smart you are. I didn’t know you hide behind that sharp tongue. I didn’t know why you were down here, and I had no idea why you sat down at my table, but I was glad you did. I’ve thought about that night over and over again. I wonder what would have happened to us if the phone didn’t ring. I wonder what it would feel like to hold you again. I think things that I shouldn’t. I dream things that I shouldn’t. I want things that I shouldn’t and it’s all because of one reason—I do care about you.”
    I gasp as if someone punched me in the stomach. I hold onto