“Why cutting?”
“I don’t really know. It’s a compulsion; it just felt like that was what I needed. Either cut or float off into some black hell. I felt so disconnected, like my life didn’t belong to me. The pain gave me an anchor. Now, I think it was something my mother couldn’t touch. Then, I just knew it helped. It’s hard to explain.” I shrug. I want him to understand, but I don’t really understand myself, and I don’t like talking about it.
“I get it,” he says.
I look at him, wondering if he’s just being polite, but I see genuine comprehension in his face.
“Sixteen,” he says thoughtfully. “But when I saw you compete at eighteen, there were no scars.”
“My hips,” I say. “I kept all the cuts on my hips at first. Easy enough to hide, even in a pageant dressing room.”
“What changed?” He’s holding my hand, gently stroking my fingers.
“Ashley,” I admit. “When I was eighteen, she committed suicide. Her husband had left her—my mother had been appalled. Said Ashley must have done something to drive him away. I guess Ashley thought so, too, because her suicide note said she was a failure.” I swallow, appreciating the way he’s squeezing my hand in support. “That was the first time I realized how much I hated my mother. But I still didn’t have the courage to tell her to fuck the pageants. So I sliced up my thighs.” My smile is ironic. “That’s a lot harder to hide.”
“Did she get you help?”
“No. First she went on and on about how I screwed up her plans and embarrassed her. Then she told me I was a selfish bitch because I was throwing away all that prize money and scholarships and probably even a husband.”
Damien says nothing, but I can see the burn of temper in his eyes and the tightness across his body. He’s holding in an explosion, and the fact that his wrath is on my behalf gives me the strength to continue.
“She told me I destroyed all her hard work, and she didn’t know why she’d spent years bothering with a ridiculous little fool like me. She said I’d ruined my body and my future. I guess part of me believed her, because even once I was in Austin at school, I still cut.”
He hands me a glass of wine, and I take it gratefully. “I was scared and alone and overwhelmed. But I did see a counselor, and things started to get better and finally I stopped.” I take a sip. “My mother has money,” I admit. “Nothing like you have, but she inherited the family oil business when my grandfather passed away, along with a pretty hefty bank account.” I don’t mention that Mother’s ineptitude drove the company into the ground and she ended up selling it. Now she’s living on what’s in the bank, and the fortune is shrinking every year because she hasn’t got a clue how to manage it and refuses to hire an advisor. That’s one of the reasons I’m determined to learn how to run a business before I actually have a business to run.
“Anyway, Mother cut me off financially after I declared my majors. Science wasn’t what she wanted for her little girl. But that was the best thing for me, because suddenly I didn’t have her looking over my shoulder. I didn’t have to be perfect. I didn’t quit immediately, but it started to get better, and after a while I didn’t need to cut anymore.”
My words have been pouring out of me. It’s more than I’ve ever told anyone. Even Jamie and Ollie only learned the truth in small doses. But it feels good to get it out, even though the price is the growing ferocity I see in his eyes.
Still, I haven’t told him everything.…
He puts our glasses on a table by the bed and moves the tray with the food out of the way. Then he pulls me into his arms, so that my head is resting on his shoulder. Slowly, his fingers trail up and down my arm. “I understand, baby. I promise you, I understand.”
I squeeze my eyes tight. I believe him.
“But what aren’t you telling me?”
I blink at him. “I—how do you know that?”
“The way you ran from me,” he says simply.
I ease out of his embrace and roll over on my side.
He presses his palm to my shoulder. I close my eyes.
“What if I say ‘sunset’?” My voice is a whisper.
His fingers tighten, then relax. “If you need to.” He reaches over me and takes my hand, then twines his fingers with mine. “Or you can just hold tight.”
I don’t know where to begin, so I start with the easiest. “I never slept with Ollie,” I say. “Not the way you understood me, anyway.”
He is silent, and so I continue, telling my story to the night sky and to Damien. “It was about a week after Ashley’s birthday, a few years after the suicide. I’d mostly stopped cutting, but sometimes—well, sometimes I needed it. But I was getting better. Ollie knew. And Jamie. And they were helping me.”
“What happened?”
“I got drunk. I mean wasted drunk. My mom had called and given me some head trip. I missed Ashley something fierce. And I was dating this guy. Kurt. We’d been going out for months, and it had taken me a while, but we started sleeping together, and he would tell me how he didn’t mind the scars, that I was beautiful, that it was about me, not my scars or my tits or any of that stuff. Just me and him and our connection. And I believed him and, honestly, the sex was good. We had fun together.”
I suck in a deep breath to give me courage to continue. “But this night, we both got wasted. Honestly, I don’t even know how he managed to get an erection. But he did, and we did, and afterward he looked at my legs and he”—my voice breaks with the memory—“he told me I was lucky I had a pretty face and such a sweet pussy because I was one totally screwed-up bitch, and my scars made him want to puke.”