Left Drowning(72)

The scar on my forearm sits perfectly between the two that angle across his back. My scar fills in, it completes, his. As if we are an exact match … as if we are …

This is crazy.

I cannot show this to Chris. We don’t believe in fate, or destiny, or coincidences … or whatever the hell this is. We don’t believe in the unexplainable, and this is unexplainable.

And yet, I believe.

I start to shiver. Chris breaks our hold to get a towel, and he shrouds me in the thick white terry cloth. “You’re cold, baby. Here.” As he dries my shoulders, I move my hands to his face and hold him. His green eyes are dark tonight, more muted than usual. He is tired, I can see that. But effortlessly, with one arm behind my back and the other under my legs, he lifts me and carries me into the moonlit bedroom, and we make love over and over again for one last night.

It is hours later that we fall asleep with me enclosed in his arms.

When I wake in the morning, he is gone.

In my hand is one of the silver skipping stones that I gave him. There is a folded note, too, that reads, So that you always have what you need.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


Hard to Hold


Late February brings brutally cold weather and even blizzards. It’s always like this, but I’m more aware of the bitter cold this year, not to mention the never-ending snow and ice. The indoor track is virtually empty on this Saturday afternoon, exactly how I prefer it. My guess is that almost nobody else wanted to brave the storm that hit today to walk across campus to the gym. It’s that bad out. But it’s half the reason that I’m here. The dorm feels claustrophobic to me today, so I had to get out. It probably took me as long to bundle up in protective clothing as it will to complete my run.

There is one other girl on the track with me and a few guys lifting in the weight room. The glass wall to the room affords me an easy view when I run past, and I spot Chris when I run by. We don’t usually overlap because I often run in the early morning and he usually works out in the late afternoon, but today I spent most of the day finishing schoolwork.

He waves as I near the weight room on this lap, and I wave back. He’s got on a tight blue nylon shirt and black shorts, and I can’t help slowing my pace a little as I take him in. Knowing what is under that shirt and shorts is distracting. I look away and turn up the volume on my music. The most recent playlist from Chris blasts loudly in my ears, and I refocus on my run. The timer that I’ve set reads sixty-three minutes. Another twelve and I’ll stop. I know that I’m still not very fast, so I push hard for the last few laps until my legs and my lungs are burning.

After a cooldown walk and a shower, I stand in my bra and underwear in front of the locker room mirror and dry my hair. Usually I throw my curls in a ponytail, but today I’ll turn into a walking icicle if I go outside without drying it. As I run the brush through my hair and work the blow dryer on high heat, I am noticing the scar on my left forearm more than usual. It’s not that I’m self-conscious or embarrassed about it again, but I’m more … I don’t know what I am. Confused. Bewildered. I haven’t told Chris how our scars match up. I can’t begin to make sense of it.

I halfway want to tell Chris about it, but I’m afraid he’ll be dismissive. For me, there is meaning in how we fit together, there has to be, but I know he won’t see it the same way. Estelle would make too much of it. Sabin would get it. But Chris? No. Besides, the reentry back to school after our days in the hotel was hard enough, and there is no reason to complicate what is over for now. It’s not the right time to talk about scars, mine or Chris’s. And I don’t need details to know the profound significance of Chris’s scars, physical and emotional. What may have happened to him, and to Estelle, Eric, and Sabin, is more than I can stand. But I don’t know the story yet, and imagining details is not smart. I need facts, but I have an unwavering respect for privacy, so I will not ask about this.

It’s taken us a little time to find our footing again with each other, and some of that struggle is probably from the fact that Sabin, Eric, and Estelle make no secret of staring back and forth between us at every given opportunity, waiting to see what might happen. I don’t know about Chris, but I haven’t talked about our time together with any of them. Luckily, they asked me directly. What went on between me and Chris is ours and ours alone. I can’t even tell Sabin, and I tell him everything else. I’ve listened to his many one-night stand stories, but I will never talk to him about the hotel.

But despite the curious stares from the Shepherd siblings, Chris and I are now finally back to normal. Well, whatever is “normal” is for us. We joke and hang out; we study together sometimes. It’s easier in a group because there’s less opportunity for any loaded eye contact. I try not to touch him much because the electricity that I still feel from any brush of his skin—or, hell, the fabric of his clothing—can make me catch my breath. I’ve accepted that the heat between us is just a part of who we are. But that doesn’t make it any easier when I’m trying to pay attention to Dostoyevsky, and I feel Chris put a hand on my shoulder to ask if I want a cup of coffee. Because then all I can think about is how that hand can move so skillfully over my breasts, between my legs … So that’s challenging. But we have not so much as kissed since that last night in the hotel. As much as I wouldn’t mind a repeat of a number of things, we are in a good place with each other. Being on hold is not an unhappy place to be.