Burn Before Reading(57)

I rested my head on his chest, slowly, afraid I might spook him. He didn’t start, or move, but his heartbeat sped up, so fast I could’ve sworn a dozen butterflies were trapped in his ribcage.

“Is…is this okay?” I asked. I felt him nod above me.

“Y-Yeah.”

A part of me was vaguely aware what this would look like if Mr. Finch - or worse, Fitz – walked in. But another part of me didn’t care. As long as this was helping, as long as Wolf was comfortable, it was fine. Except he wasn’t comfortable, clearly. His body was fighting him every inch of the way to hold me like this, I could feel it in his tensed muscles. But he was trying his best. Phobias involving the sense of touch often evolved from severe PTSD, or at least that’s what that one textbook told me. Mark must’ve been fucking terrible to Wolf. I started to hate him, wherever he was, as Wolf trembled around me and above me.

“Would it help if I talked?” I asked. “We could have a conversation. It might distract you.”

“About what?” He struggled from between gritted teeth.

“I could just blather on. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m good at that. Or we could talk about anything that’s been on your mind.”

There was a silence. I looked up at him; I knew his jawline was sharp, but up close I felt like I could cut myself on it.

“The dress,” He started. “I never got to say that it looked…good. On you. I mean, you looked pretty. In it.”

He struggled on the exhale, like he was annoyed with himself. It was strange to hear the immaculately poised Blackthorn brother, the boy who ruled this school with an iron thumb and his red-cards, speak so brokenly. His compliment was late, but it bloomed like a warm, embarrassed flower in my chest. I’d been so afraid of it, before, but hearing it in real life actually felt nice.

I couldn’t let it get to me, though. He was still definitely Wolfgang Blackthorn, and he’d said I was pathetic. If nothing else, this was the perfect time to practice my professionalism – even if a patient insults you, you still have to distance yourself from the insult and try to help them as much as possible. Being a shrink meant dealing with all kinds of people – mean ones included.

“You said this was the first time since,” I said. “Do you mind if I ask what comes after that ‘since’?”

Wolf hesitated – I could feel it in his shoulders.

“You don’t gotta tell me. It’s just – I’m supposed to be the shrink, right? It helps if I know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re going to use it against me,” He muttered.

“If I wanted to use something against you,” I said pointedly. “I wouldn’t be here, hugging you.”

His shoulders tensed, like he was having some internal war with himself.

“I don’t like you, Wolf. But I don’t want to hurt you, either. I’m not that kind of person. Or at least I don’t think I am.”

“No, you’re right. You’re not,” He sighed. “I’ve known those kinds of people, and they are nothing like you. But I can’t tell you. It’s something I deal with on my own.”

He’d been dealing with it for years solo, obviously. And obviously, he hadn’t been very successful, if all he had to show for it was a crippling phobia and a bit of ring-turning to assuage it.

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to start inferring stuff.” I said. “And I know you hate that.”

“I’d rather you infer than know the truth. My past is…too shameful to talk about with someone else.”

I wasn’t going to press him – pressing too hard had bad consequences, or so the textbooks said.

“Alright,” I put my head against his chest again. “If all I can do is sit here and get hugged, I guess that’s okay, too. I’ve never turned down a good hug. Or a bad hug. Not that your hugs are bad, they’re just a little, uh, rusty.”

He laughed. He actually laughed, and I could feel it in every bone. Wolfgang Blackthorn, the angriest, most sullen guy in the school, actually laughed. And it wasn’t a mean-spirited chuckle, or a scoff. It was a true, honest-to-god laugh. I was pretty sure I wasn’t hearing things right. But he wasn’t shaking as much as he was earlier, so I took it as a good sign.

“I’m not that funny,” I frowned. He caught his breath quickly.

“Give yourself some credit. At least fifty percent of the jokes you make are passable.”

“Passable,” I repeated. “I think that’s the highest compliment I’ve ever gotten from you.”

“And it’s also the last,” He said. “Because the second I let go, it’s going to get very awkward, and we’ll never be able to face each other again.”

“Right,” I squirmed, suddenly aware of how long we’d been like this. “That’s fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah. As long as this like, helped you, I’m fine if you don’t ever look at me again. I think. Since you never actually look at me anyway, and if you do, it’s always with that pissed-off look on your face, which is sort of bad for my morale. If I had any morale left after high school sapped it all away, that is.”

He was quiet. I squirmed again.

“Just…as long as it helped. It doesn’t matter what happens after this, as long as I did something to help you.”