Echo(65)

“Umm . . . thanks,” I mumble when he moves past me and into his bedroom.

I don’t know whether I should follow him, so I stay put, but I don’t have to wait long for him to return with his leather toiletry bag I remember from his loft back in Chicago.

“Here,” he says as he hands it to me. “You can use my things.”

He then walks into my room, and this time, I follow. He takes a seat in the sitting area by the windows, and I go into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I open his bag, pull out his toothbrush, and take comfort in using it along with his deodorant. I brush my hair, careful not to rip off the bandage the doctor put over the scab on the back of my head.

When I walk out, he’s made himself comfortable, looking pulled together in slacks and a crisp, charcoal button-up. But I can see the exhaustion in his eyes as well. I walk over and slip back into bed, covering up in the warm blankets, sitting against the upholstered headboard. I take a sip from my cup of tea and look over to Declan who’s flipping through a stack of papers.

“Are those . . . ?”

He raises his head and says, “I wanted to know what upset you, so I took them from your room.”

“Did you . . . I mean, have you . . . ?” I fumble with my words as my anxiety picks up, remembering what I read.

“I figured it would be best to talk about this and deal with it head on instead of it taking control over you.”

Shaking my head, I tell him, “I don’t want to talk about it, Declan.”

“Why?”

Putting the tea aside on the nightstand, I wilt down in the bed and give him my honest thoughts. “Because it hurts too much. Because talking won’t change it. Because my life is already too screwed up for me to handle.”

He sets the papers down on the coffee table in front of him, leans forward, and says, “Ignoring it is only going to make it hurt worse. That’s your problem, Ni—Elizabeth.” Shaking his head at his near slip, he looks back to me and continues, “You hide everything, and when you do that, you give those things power over you.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No,” I respond, and he releases annoyance in a sigh, saying, “Then explain last night to me.”

“That wasn’t—”

“Have you looked at yourself lately?” he chides. “A woman who’s in control wouldn’t be smashing her head into a f*cking wall.”

“You don’t understand,” I defend.

“Then please, explain it to me. Make me understand why your body is covered in contusions.”

His glare is sharp, pinning his frustrations to me as I sit here awkwardly. Knowing how Declan saw me last night, knowing the things I’ve revealed to him, I feel denuded of my armor I’m used to hiding behind. I’ve laid myself bare to this man, but now I want to hide again. I want to throw the fa?ade on and lash my crude words at him. Push him out of the honesty I’ve been giving him.

But he sees me wanting to avoid when he presses, “I want you to tell me why you’re determined to destroy yourself. Tell me why.”

Shaking my head, I stutter, “I don’t . . . You wouldn’t understand . . . I can’t . . . ”

“Why hide now? Why? Just talk to me. Tell me.”

But I doubt he would even understand if I told him. I barely understand it myself. As I continue to avoid answering, he stands up and walks over to me, sitting on the bed in front of me. His closeness, especially after kissing him last night, unsettles me, and I let my fear grow.

With a rigid tone, heavy with his brogue, he says, “Help me figure you out. Tell me why you’re hurting yourself.”

“I’m not . . . ” I begin when I hear the tribulation in the cracks of his stern voice. I give in to his request because I know he deserves it. I owe him whatever it is that he wants. “I’m not hurting myself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It makes me feel better,” I confess. “When I’m hurting, really hurting, I hit myself and it takes the hurt away.”

“You’re wrong. You’re just masking the pain; you’re not getting rid of it.”

“But I don’t know how to get rid of it.”

“You deal with it. You talk about it and face it and process it.”

His words are reminiscent of Carnegie’s. He once told me something very similar when I spoke with him about Bennett. But the thing is, to face a pain like that takes a particular type of strength I don’t possess.