Burn Before Reading(108)

I look at him, his fingers turning his wolf ring quickly.

“Why?”

His eyes get sharp, jade green boring into me. “You ask why too much.”

I laugh. “Sorry. Shrink habit.”

He’s quiet, and then;

“I wasn’t planning on telling you…because you deserve someone better. Someone who doesn’t try to expel you. Someone who can touch you without shaking. Someone who doesn’t make you cry like you did that night at Ciao Bella.”

His fists clench on the Clue board.

“I left you there. Alone. I didn’t look back once. I didn’t once think about the shit I did to force you into trusting my Dad. The whole reason you were in with him was because of me. And you got hurt by it. Because of me.”

Wolf looks up, hair shading his broken expression.

“So just tell me. Tell me to fuck off, once and for all. And I will.”

I’m struck silent, the burning force of his gaze charring my thoughts to ash. I can’t think. I can barely move. I keep trying to say it, to make my mouth form the words, but they refuse to come out. Wolf’s face falls, slowly, then all at once, like a cliff crumbling into the sea.

“Right,” He stands up, pulling his jacket back on. “I get the picture.” He walks over, grabs his present, and places it on the couch by me with a bittersweet smile. “Happy birthday, Bee.”

The clunk as the front door shuts behind him echoes hollowly in my chest. Like a rusted robot, I pull off the wrapping paper, and open the box.

It’s a book. A hardcover, gilded-edged book of illustrated fantasy creatures. Wizards, witches, dragons and gryphons and priestesses and mermaids in glorious, delicate detail; wild and free. Everything I used to love - everything I still love. Everything I want to write.

Everything I want to be.

Wolf.

He’s always known. He’s always tried to tell me to make myself happy, instead of others. To be selfish.

Maybe it’s time I try it.

I stand up, tearing the door open and taking the stairs two at a time. He’s almost to his bike. I fling my arms around his waist and hold tight.

“I like you,” I push the words out of me, finally. “I like you a lot.”

I feel all his muscles freeze beneath me.

“You’re just saying that,” He says. “To be nice.”

“No!” I shake my head against his spine. He smells like oil and leather and the wilderness – he smells like a Wolf. “It’s not like that.”

“I’m mean,” He insists.

“You can say that, but you do the red-cards. You try so hard to look out for everyone. Even me. The stuff I said at Ciao Bella wasn’t a lie – I’ve had the most fun maybe ever in my life, hanging out with you.”

“And my brothers.”

“No, just…you. Just touching your hand, or your hair, or any part of you. Just arguing with you. All of it. All of it was fun. I had – I had so much fun.”

“You cried,” His voice is soft. “I made you cry.”

“Newsflash,” I feel tears start to well up, out of gratitude this time. Out of happiness. “I only let people who are important to me make me cry.”

“That isn’t a good thing, Bee.” He turns in my arms to face me, his gaze like silk and fire.

“Crying can be a good thing!” I insist, rubbing my eyes with my fists. “Like – like right now. I’m crying because I –”

I lift my chin, and smile.

“Because I’m happy. That you like me. Because I like you too.”

His face, so apprehensive before, melts into a smile. It’s slow, like the last snow in spring, but it’s just as gentle and glowing. He pulls me against him, our hips close.

“This time I’m the one who gets to ask if it’s alright to touch you,” He says, voice rumbling in my chest.

I can’t help my laugh. It bubbles up from me fast and true and bright. I lean up, his mouth tantalizingly close, our fingers and breaths intertwining.

“It’s more than alright.”





EPILOGUE


Dear Sarah Lawrence,

You asked me to write about where I see myself in five years, so here I am. Writing. It’s not something I’m good at, but I want to get good at it, and I think that should count for something. Wanting to get good, the drive and focus it fosters, is something a lot more people should treasure. Some people just don’t care. Some people are fine with living as they are, without pushing their limits or boundaries in ways that will make them grow.

And I get it.

Growing is painful. I spent a whole year watching three brothers grow. Their father abused them, emotionally, but they broke out of it. I don’t know where I’ll see myself in five years, but I know where I’d like to see me – with them.

But I guess I should start from the beginning.

A year ago, I was studying my ass off to become a shrink, and go to NYU for it. It was for my dad – he has pretty bad depression, and when he was diagnosed I wanted to do everything in my power to help. And all I could think of was learn to treat him like I couldn’t. Like we didn’t have the money to. But the three brothers showed me that no matter how painful it is, no matter how selfish it may seem, you have to pursue your own dreams as hard as you can. They taught me that it’s noble to want to help, but you can’t help anyone if you don’t help yourself first. So I thought I’d write my essay about them, instead of whatever boring thing you wanted me to do.