she can’t see them. But that can’t be right, it has to be a fluke.
“I should have asked, shouldn’t I?” she says so quiet I barely hear her. “But I never did.”
“That would have implied caring. And I wouldn’t have told you anyway. Trust and communication aren’t big parts of our non-relationship, Zoe, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Her fingertips leave my shoulder, and I mentally cringe.
“You were right,” she says. “I don’t know you at all.”
I reach behind me and my arm hooks around her waist, and I pull her forward, her forehead falling against my spine as her palms splay on my back.
“Regret is worthless. It only slows you down.” I swallow, then breathe out more gently, “If something is broken, then fix it.”
She faintly nods and I take a deep breath, then slide her around so she’s in front of me: her back to my chest and standing between me and the counter. I hug one arm across her chest, my head dropping to her shoulder, and when she covers my arm with one of hers it feels like an apology I’ve been waiting forever to hear.
I find her right hand and sweep my thumb over her palm, my words barely above a whisper. “Things change, fates change. Scars will heal, Zoe, no matter how bad the wound. You just have to want it.”
“And yours? How long did they take to heal?”
I exhale. “A while. But I had help.”
“I didn’t,” she says and I turn my head, my cheek resting on her shoulder so I can watch her face.
“You could.”
“No.”
I chew the inside of my lip, swallowing down the quick and single cutting word. If I survived the ruthless, torturous training during my Indoctrination Course, I can survive her stubbornness, her insecurity and raw fear. I’ve been through worse tests of patience, of resolve. Guys were quitting two or three times a day and screaming their defeat with the squeeze of an air horn, and no matter how bad it got, when my body was crumpling and I knew so much pain from exhaustion it damn near sent me crazy, I wouldn’t give up. 120 of us started indoc, and ten weeks later there were twelve of us left.
Twelve.
Hoo-Yah.
It’s been forever since I’ve said it and for a long time, it was practically the only word I knew.
Yes.
I’m here.
I hear you.
You can’t break me.
And I say it now, but she doesn’t hear me because it’s yelled from a place where words don’t have sounds, only shadows of iron tight promises.
“Well, you may not need any help, but I sure do. Ready to get dirty?” I say quietly, seeing the corner of her mouth turn up and mine follows suit. “Get your head outta the gutter,” I tease more lightly, and her muscles finally relax against mine. I rework our arms and pillow her fingertips between mine, guiding her hands to pick up one half of the skirt steak, then dip it into the egg.
“Oh, that’s gross,” she whines with a chuckle, squirming a little when we lay it in the flour, sprinkling it and turning it over, making sure all sides are coated and a globbed mess covering our fingertips.
“And now, we do it again. Because what good is one round when you can have two,” I say huskily and she shivers, goosebumps appearing on the skin of her neck. We recoat the steak in more egg and then more flour, and when I flick a speck of flour into the oil it sizzles just like I want it to. “Let me do this part,” I tell her and she lets go, and carefully, I slide the steak into the pan; Zoe jumping with a squeak and a giggle when it splatters a little.
I lean over to check her face, seeing her smiling bright and beautifully and I’m quickly becoming a total sucker for it.
“Didn’t get you, did it?”
She shakes her head, and I let my smile show for only a second before I shut it down.
“Then get back to work, slacker, we’ve got more food to cook.”
“Oh my God, you’re such a bully!”
“At least I’m not a Republican,” I tell her, and she gasps.
*
“I should have asked, shouldn’t I?” she says so quiet I barely hear her. “But I never did.”
“That would have implied caring. And I wouldn’t have told you anyway. Trust and communication aren’t big parts of our non-relationship, Zoe, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Her fingertips leave my shoulder, and I mentally cringe.
“You were right,” she says. “I don’t know you at all.”
I reach behind me and my arm hooks around her waist, and I pull her forward, her forehead falling against my spine as her palms splay on my back.
“Regret is worthless. It only slows you down.” I swallow, then breathe out more gently, “If something is broken, then fix it.”
She faintly nods and I take a deep breath, then slide her around so she’s in front of me: her back to my chest and standing between me and the counter. I hug one arm across her chest, my head dropping to her shoulder, and when she covers my arm with one of hers it feels like an apology I’ve been waiting forever to hear.
I find her right hand and sweep my thumb over her palm, my words barely above a whisper. “Things change, fates change. Scars will heal, Zoe, no matter how bad the wound. You just have to want it.”
“And yours? How long did they take to heal?”
I exhale. “A while. But I had help.”
“I didn’t,” she says and I turn my head, my cheek resting on her shoulder so I can watch her face.
“You could.”
“No.”
I chew the inside of my lip, swallowing down the quick and single cutting word. If I survived the ruthless, torturous training during my Indoctrination Course, I can survive her stubbornness, her insecurity and raw fear. I’ve been through worse tests of patience, of resolve. Guys were quitting two or three times a day and screaming their defeat with the squeeze of an air horn, and no matter how bad it got, when my body was crumpling and I knew so much pain from exhaustion it damn near sent me crazy, I wouldn’t give up. 120 of us started indoc, and ten weeks later there were twelve of us left.
Twelve.
Hoo-Yah.
It’s been forever since I’ve said it and for a long time, it was practically the only word I knew.
Yes.
I’m here.
I hear you.
You can’t break me.
And I say it now, but she doesn’t hear me because it’s yelled from a place where words don’t have sounds, only shadows of iron tight promises.
“Well, you may not need any help, but I sure do. Ready to get dirty?” I say quietly, seeing the corner of her mouth turn up and mine follows suit. “Get your head outta the gutter,” I tease more lightly, and her muscles finally relax against mine. I rework our arms and pillow her fingertips between mine, guiding her hands to pick up one half of the skirt steak, then dip it into the egg.
“Oh, that’s gross,” she whines with a chuckle, squirming a little when we lay it in the flour, sprinkling it and turning it over, making sure all sides are coated and a globbed mess covering our fingertips.
“And now, we do it again. Because what good is one round when you can have two,” I say huskily and she shivers, goosebumps appearing on the skin of her neck. We recoat the steak in more egg and then more flour, and when I flick a speck of flour into the oil it sizzles just like I want it to. “Let me do this part,” I tell her and she lets go, and carefully, I slide the steak into the pan; Zoe jumping with a squeak and a giggle when it splatters a little.
I lean over to check her face, seeing her smiling bright and beautifully and I’m quickly becoming a total sucker for it.
“Didn’t get you, did it?”
She shakes her head, and I let my smile show for only a second before I shut it down.
“Then get back to work, slacker, we’ve got more food to cook.”
“Oh my God, you’re such a bully!”
“At least I’m not a Republican,” I tell her, and she gasps.
*
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