Abbi shakes, her eyes closing.
“Everything you see as a flaw – your scars, your demons, your darkness – that’s what makes you so damn beautiful. The only flaw is that you can’t see it. But I can. I see it every single time I look at you, and I won’t stop bugging the crap out of you until you can look in the mirror and see it for yourself.”
She half-laugh, half-sobs, and her legs buckle. I catch her with my other arm and pull her to me. My hand on her chin slides to the back of her head as we sink to the floor. Her hands grip the sides of my leotard, her face pressed into my chest, and I hold her shaking body against mine tighter than I’ve ever held anyone or anything before.
~
I twirl the empty beer bottle between my hands repeatedly. Tori’s face stares back at me from the bookcase, her green eyes illuminated by the sunshine in the background and her brown waves framing her cheeks. Her smile is wide and it’s a genuine one. A rare occurrence, something that could come and go faster than a shooting star. Sometimes I was afraid I would miss it if I blinked too slowly.
Now I have a permanent smile. A constant reminder of the girl that was buried deep inside, fighting a battle only she truly knew.
The only problem with that picture is it feels almost empty. It’s been almost ten years since she died, and every day that picture has lost a little of its light. The warmth has slowly left it, more so since I left London and arrived here in Brooklyn.
As much as I love Tori, a part of me resents her. A part of me hates her for leaving me to do this alone – what we should have been doing together. A part of me can’t forgive her for the choices she made, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to. It still hurts as much as it did the day she died. I don’t think it’ll ever hurt any less.
My phone rings from the kitchen side, but I make no move to answer it. And it rings. And it rings. And it rings. Then stops, before starting up again. I leave it to go to voicemail for a second time, still teasing the neck of my bottle, and clench my teeth when it rings for a third time. Only one person would call me this persistently.
My mother.
I lope across the kitchen and snatch up the simultaneously ringing and vibrating device. “Mum.”
“Whatever took you so long?”
“Hello to you too,” I reply sarcastically, leaving the bottle by the sink.
“Attitude, Blake,” she chastises me. “I was only calling to arrange our dinner on Thursday.”
“And it couldn’t wait until tomorrow? It’s midnight.”
“Not here it isn’t.” She sniffs. “Besides, you are awake.”
“Fine.”
“Have you found anywhere for us to eat? Not that place you work at. You know I’m particular about my seafood.”
And the rest of your life.
“Actually, I thought I’d cook,” I reply.
“I thought you had dance class.”
“I do. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still cook, Mum.”
“It would be much easier if we just went out somewhere.”
I grit my teeth. “I have another guest. Someone I want you to meet.” If she agrees.
“Oh?” Her voice goes up an octave, and I can tell I’ve finally got her attention. “A girl?”
“Yes.”
Mum is silent as she thinks it over just like she thinks over every single detail of her life. Have dinner in a fancy restaurant or let your son cook and meet someone important to him – it shouldn’t be a hard choice. She should go for the second option without even needing to think it over, but I don’t expect her to. I expect her to push for the restaurant.
“Okay,” she agrees, albeit reluctantly. “Call me when you finish your class and you’re home. I’ll come when you’re ready. I suppose one night of your cooking won’t kill me.”
“Gee, thanks, Mum.”
“You’re welcome. Now go to bed. I’ll see you on Thursday. Goodbye, Blake.” She hangs up before I can respond. I scowl at the phone and slam it on the side, wondering if I’ve just made a very, very bad decision.
Chapter Fifteen – Abbi
Dr. Hausen looks at me expectantly, her eyes soft behind her glasses. As usual, her hair is pinned back from her face, but instead of her usual suit, today she’s wearing jeans and a sweater. Her clipboard is nowhere in sight, her hands clutching a steaming mug of coffee.
At least there’s no damn clicky pen.
Today isn’t our usual meet. Today she’s supposed to spend the day running group workshops with the guys here at St. Morris’ instead of her one on one appointments, but she’s here with me instead. She’s taken an hour of her time away from them to sort out the mess flying around my head.
“So, tell me more,” she finally says. “You weren’t exactly descriptive in your phone call.”
I take a deep breath in and push my sleeves up. I lay my hands palm up on my legs, exposing the scars for her to see. It’s unnecessary; she knows exactly what they are and what they look like, but the words are caught in my throat. The only way I can tell her is by showing her.
“Tell me,” she repeats. “You don’t have to hide here, Abbi, you know that. This is a safe place for you. Dig deep inside and find the words to tell me.”
“Blake…” I swallow. “He saw them.”
“How?”
The words that were stuck just seconds ago come flowing out. I tell her about the flashback, how real the memory of the night Pearce almost raped me was, and I tell her how it made me feel. I describe to her how I know I should have stayed in bed, but instead went to class and messed almost everything up. And then I say how nothing makes sense to me anymore, because Blake shouldn’t have reacted the way he did.
“How should he have reacted? In your mind,” Dr. Hausen prompts. “What’s the “right” way for him to react to your scars?”
“He should have grabbed his stuff and got away from me. He should have been horrified by them the way I am, and he shouldn’t even think about coming near me again.”
“What did he do?”
I look at the floor, my eyes tracing the boxed pattern on the rug beneath us. “He held me. He held me and wouldn’t let me go. Even when I pushed him away, he held me again and again and he didn’t let go of me. He let me cry into his chest, and he didn’t promise it would be okay. He didn’t make me promises no one can keep.”
“What did he say?”