Old Wounds: Little Battles Part 2

"That's my favorite Palmetto in Tampa."

"Y-you have a f-ff-fffavorite P-P-Palmetto? Is that a t-t-t-tree or a b-bush?"

I smiled in answer. "It's a tree that looks like a shrub." "W-why is it your f-ff-ffffavorite?

"It was right outside my bedroom window," I said, picturing it in my mind. "I spent a lot of time looking at it."

"W-why do you w-wonder wwwhy I w-want to be friends with you, SS-Sophie?"

I was shocked by the unexpected shift in our conversation, and I recalled the e-mail questions I had sent him last night. "Because I'm not a good person like you are."

"How d-do you know that?"

I fiddled with the bottom of my shirt. "Because I can see that you're a good person."

"How d-do you know that you're n-not?"

I sighed deeply. He didn't really want to know how I knew. It was evident that I wasn't a good person. He didn't really want to know about the guys I'd had s.e.x with and the s.h.i.t I'd done. If he did know, he'd rethink his friendship with me because he'd realize that the only thing I'd do was bring him down.

"Do you want to help me make dinner?" I was clearly changing the topic and I was thankful that he let me.

"Ssssure."

It wasn't time to make dinner yet. Tom wouldn't be home for a while, and I knew that if Elliott were any other guy I'd jump him in the meantime. But he wasn't any other guy. He was Elliott and I wanted to brush the hair away from his face and make him smile. Maybe even laugh.

As much as that dance scared the s.h.i.t out of me, I couldn't help but want to be close to him like that again. Most of me didn't care that it was wrong. Most of me wanted to break all of my rules, but there was still a part of me that was terrified. I was terrified of the change he brought and petrified of the risk of hurting him.

I was pretty sure that no matter what I did, I'd end up hurting my very own flawed Greek G.o.d with the hazel eyes and shy smile. He'd put my portfolio on the dresser and was just looking at me, waiting for me to move. "W-w-why are you sssso ssssad?"

"I'm not a good friend for you."

He froze for a moment, looking like a wounded puppy. "Y-you d-d-don't w-w-want to be mm-mmmy friend?"

My body felt heavy when I heard the sadness in his voice. "That's not what I said."

Elliott shook his head and suddenly I felt like I needed to warn him again. I needed to get him to go away, to not want to be my friend, to not give a s.h.i.t about me at all. I needed him to abandon his quest of getting to know me.

"I'll ruin you."

His voice was softer than before. "I-I've been r-r-r-ruined for a l-l-long t-t-time now."

He wasn't understanding me. "No, you're a good person, Elliott, I don't want to corrupt that."

"Y-you're a g-g-g-good p-person."

d.a.m.n him. He didn't get it. He should leave. "Don't be blind, Elliott."

The look of panic wore off his face and it shifted into something like anger. "I-I-I'm nnnnot. I c-c-can ssssssee your f-f-f-flaws, S-Soph-phie, b-but they d-don't make you a b-bad p-person."

He was probably the only person on the planet who would sit here and argue with me about if I was a good person or not. It was pretty d.a.m.n clear that I wasn't. I wish I knew what he was thinking, so maybe then I'd know how to change his mind. "Please..."

"P-p-please w-w-what?" he asked.

I shook my head. "You don't even know me. No amount of e-mailing will change the fact that I'm not good for you."

"N-n-no amount of y-your p-p-protests will mm-mmake me believe that you're n-not."

"Elliott," I sighed. Why couldn't he just see that I was trying to save him here?

"If you d-don't w-w-want to be f-friends w-w-with me, that's f-f-f-f-f--, okay, b-but you're sssssaying that you're n-not g-g-good for me. You d-don't kn-know w-what's g-good for me, especially if you think th-that I d-don't kn-know you. Th-that m-means th-that you d-don't know m-me either."

Dammit, he was right. If I said that he didn't know me, how could I say that I knew what was best for him? I could see his argument, but if he knew who I was, he wouldn't want to be around me. I wasn't a likeable person. I knew that. h.e.l.l, I'd f.u.c.king manufactured myself to be that way.

I didn't want people hanging around. Life was hard enough without having to take other people into consideration.

My dad hadn't bothered with me. My mom hated me before I could even walk. If your parents, the people who were supposed to always love you and never leave you, didn't think I was worth it, what hope was there for anyone else to hang around?

I didn't need them either. I could take care of myself. I always had.

"You're going to regret it, Elliott."

I really wanted a Vicodin. With a pill, I could've gone to the bathroom and popped it quickly without him ever knowing, but I didn't have anything, and I couldn't smoke anything, because he was here and it would make him feel bad.

Why the h.e.l.l wasn't I high? This conversation probably wouldn't even be happening if I was high.

"I-I thought w-we established th-that w-we don't know each other. Ssssso how d-do you know if I'll r-regret it?"

His eyebrow was c.o.c.ked and I had to smile. "Who would have thought that I'd ever hear you talk back? Now you just need to do that s.h.i.t with Anderson."

"I-I don't c-care about Anderson." Elliott remained serious. "I c-care about you."

"But don't you see that you shouldn't?" He shook his head. d.a.m.n him. I sighed. There was no going back. I felt something for him that I'd never felt for anyone else, and I wanted him to know it, even if it made me uncomfortable. "I care about you too," I said quietly.

After what seemed like a long time, I finally asked, "So do we have to work on our Brussels sprout report or what?" It seemed like forever, but he finally nodded, and then pulled out his blue Horticulture notebook, coming to sit next to me on the bed.

The more I listened to him tell me what we should do for the report, and the more I watched his eyes as they flicked back and forth from the pages of his notebook to my face, I wondered if I could have him and not ruin him.

I licked my lips as I focused on his. They weren't thin and they weren't a full-on boy-pout either. I wanted to kiss him, but knew he probably wouldn't respond well to me doing that. He was an anxious guy already, and after the debacle of a kiss after the movies, I knew better than to go for it like that again.

Maybe if I tried really, really hard, I wouldn't screw this up. Maybe I wouldn't screw him up. Maybe I could just...

Maybe I could just be normal and like a boy and hold his hand and kiss him.

Maybe it was possible that Elliott really did want me. Maybe he wanted me as a friend. Maybe, if I tried really hard, he'd want me as more than a friend. Maybe he could...

Very, very carefully, and very, very tentatively, I managed to press my lips against his. His lips were soft and giving, making me want more and more of him. Elliott tasted sweet, not like candy, but like beets, sweet with the underlying earthy notes that accentuated the sweetness even more.

His sweet flavor, coupled with the peppery orange smell of his skin, made my senses go into overdrive. I wanted to grab a hold of him and press against him until I sank into him. Or more accurately, he sank into me.

I wanted him. I wanted him inside of me. I wanted his stuttering voice and his pained eyes so full of self-doubt. I wanted his awkwardness and his pain.

I wanted Elliott.

And when I wanted something, I took it.

Usually.

But with Elliott, if I took, I was certain I would break him. I didn't want to break him. I wanted to make him whole.

So instead of rubbing myself against him, instead of letting my hand roam his s.e.xy body, instead of even increasing the pressure on his lips, I pulled back as I flicked my tongue out to savor his unique flavor.

When I finally opened my eyes, I found him practically shaking in front of me, his eyes wide and his lips pressed tightly together. Fear seized me as it never had before with any other boy or man. He didn't want me. Not like I wanted him.

Not only didn't he want me, but I disgusted him.

I wasn't surprised. If I were him, I'd be disgusted by me too. I was a horrible person who took way more than I could ever give back. I knew that the things I did, the people I did, weren't secrets. I was nowhere near virginal.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, but his chest continued to rise and fall rapidly. He looked absolutely panicked, so I did the only thing I knew would work: I ran my hands through his dark rusty hair and whispered again, "I'm sorry."

I braced myself for his rejection, sure that he'd realized how wrong I was for him, in every way, no matter what kind of relationship we were in, but his breathing slowed as my fingers soothed his scalp, and as I closed my eyes, I let myself pretend just for a moment that neither of us were messed up and both of us were whole.

I wondered where I'd learned how to soothe anyone or anything.

Warmth encompa.s.sed my hands and I opened my eyes. Elliott had wrapped his hands around mine and he was moving them down from his hair. When they were pressed against his chest, he didn't let go. His gaze was intense, his eyes burning into me. Maybe he didn't hate the kiss.

Maybe I hadn't f.u.c.ked up.

He was still breathing hard, but he no longer looked like he was going to pa.s.s out. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I could apologize again, but I wasn't sorry for kissing him, and I was proud that I didn't wrap my legs around his waist and try to ride him for a week.

"S-S-SSSophie?"

I didn't know why he was saying my name like that. I didn't know if he had a question or wanted me to explain what just happened. We could figure that s.h.i.t out later. I was still just floating on the rush of having done that with him.

I pulled my hands away. "Tom will be home soon. Let's start on dinner."

Sophie had just kissed me and I nearly had a panic attack over it. When she apologized, my whole body began to ache. I wanted her to be happy about kissing me. I wanted her to want me. It was all very confusing, but when her hands were in my hair, I figured that maybe she was happy about it, but thought that I wasn't.

I'd been hoping to get some clarification, but then she changed the subject and said we needed to make dinner.

I wanted to talk about it. I wanted to understand. I wanted to finally be on the same page as Sophie.

When she threaded our fingers together, it was only long enough to tug me up from the bed, and then she dropped my hand the moment I stood up straight and she reached for the doork.n.o.b.

I had to say something before we left that room. "S-S-Sophie? Wh-wh-what are w-w-we?" I didn't want to appear stupid, but I honestly didn't know how I should be cla.s.sifying our relationship. I was tired of being unsure, and needed to know one way or the other.

"I can't be your girlfriend, Elliott, if that's what you're asking. I can't..."

She was still so confusing because as she was saying she was unable to be my girlfriend, she was curling her hand around mine, and then yet again pulled it away so quickly that I wondered if I'd imagined it.

"Y-you don't h-have to be mm-mmy g-girlfriend, S-Sophie." I meant it, because I didn't have any real or concrete notion of what the terms "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" entailed.

But I knew that I wanted to take care of her.

Her expression became more thoughtful as she shook her head, her eyes fixed on my feet. With a sigh, she opened the door and without another word, led me downstairs where she began preparing dinner. I would have offered to help, but she seemed to be in a world of her own, so I sat at the small kitchen table and watched. From what she'd said, she didn't cook all the time because she necessarily enjoyed it, but because she felt if she didn't, then n.o.body else would.

As she moved around the kitchen grabbing knives and dishes, chicken and potatoes, I felt myself relax again. She had let me in her house and in her room, and she'd kissed me. Other than the tensing of my body as a whole, there was no other embarra.s.sing reaction on my part; not like the last time she'd kissed me. That had been horrible. My body hadn't relaxed for hours.

Honestly, I didn't know what I would have done if I'd gotten an erection like last time, since I couldn't just run home. The memory of her kissing me made my skin hum, and I wished that we were back in her room, because even though we had argued a little, it was still a comfortable s.p.a.ce.

Her room was fairly empty, with nothing even tacked up on the wall; like if she had to, she could disappear in five minutes without leaving anything of herself behind. It was a reflection of her. Even though I knew she would be around, she didn't seem permanent.

She had books, although nowhere near as many as I had, stacked up all over her room, and there were piles of...stuff all over. There was a stack of loose-leaf paper by her old computer monitor, and a pile of folded clothes at the foot of her bed. She had about three handfuls of loose coins in a mound on the far side of her dresser. She didn't have any pictures up on the wall, and kept her portfolio sandwiched between her bed and nightstand.

Her room smelled like her. It felt like her.

I wish she had just one picture up on her walls, though. It didn't have to mean anything really, but a calendar of nature photos, or even just some page out of a magazine, would have made it seem like she was actually planning to live there longer than just one day at a time.

My thoughts were on Sophie and clearly I was thinking very, very deeply because I hadn't realized that her father had come home. I was usually hyper-aware of when people entered a room, but this time it took him clearing his throat to catch my attention.

I stood up immediately as if I'd been caught doing something incredibly wrong, and found him studying me in a way that made me intensely nervous. I shifted and tried to regulate my breathing and calm myself, not wanting to have a panic attack in front of Sophie and her father, but as my lungs seized, I felt almost powerless.

I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat, hoping that her father wouldn't require me to speak, but knowing that he would.

"Elliott's staying for dinner."

Tearing my eyes away from her father's unreadable face, I glanced at Sophie. She was still a.s.sembling ingredients into a pot like nothing major was happening.

"He is, is he?"

I looked back at Mr. Young and he shrugged as he fixed his eyes on me. "Okay," he said after a few moments of scrutiny. With one more glance at her, Sophie's father left the kitchen.

I relaxed and the wave of panic ebbed.

I spent the rest of my time at Sophie's house studying their relationship. She didn't look at him once, but he snuck a few peeks at her during dinner. Even when he would ask her specific questions about her blood sugar or a cla.s.s at school, they never made direct eye contact. It wasn't until he started asking me questions that Sophie even looked up from her plate.

"So, Elliott, your brother's pretty talented at football," he said, the awkwardness apparent in his voice. "Do you play any sports?"

"N-n-no, ssssir."

I wished right now I was good at sports, and everything else, like my brother David, because he obviously liked football and being able to talk jock-speak, and that would have made things easier. Not that talking about anything would ever be easy for me.

"You have a cla.s.s with Sophie?"

I nodded, but he wasn't looking, so I had to say, "Y-yes, ssssir."

"Sophie says that you two are working on a project?"

"Y-yes, ssssir." He looked like he wanted more details, so I tried to supply them. "W-w-we're g-growing B-B-Br-Br," I tried, but failed horribly.