His cheeks flush as he finishes.
“It’s really earnest,” I say.
“I told you. I’m earnest.”
“I believe you.”
He arches a brow really.
“Really.”
“Good. That means you’re more likely to agree to this.”
“To?”
“The bad writing.” He pulls out his cell. Goes straight to his shitty drawing, the one he showed me yesterday.
Though it’s not all that bad. The technique is decent. As far as I can tell. “I, uh…”
“A promise is a promise.”
“I don’t…”
“I see that pink notebook.” He motions to my tote bag. “You keep all your secrets in there?”
Yes, actually. Too many. Things he absolutely, positively can’t see.
Although…
What if he could? What if I showed him? If I told him and he still wanted me?
What if someone else believed I was okay?
If he knew I was a mess and he still wanted me…
My heart thuds against my chest. My fingers curl into my thighs. My eyes press together.
I want it too much. So much I can barely breathe. And I… I don’t want that ruining this.
Yes, I want to show him my scars. Yes, I want him to understand. To hold me and kiss me and whisper I love you the way you are.
But that…
Is it even possible?
“Daisy?” His fingers brush my wrist. It’s a soft touch. Tender. Loving even. “If you really don’t—”
“No, I do.” I bend. Pick up my notebook. Run my finger over the edges. “But give me a minute to pick something out.”
He nods sure.
I flip to something in the middle. Recent enough it won’t give away anything. Old enough it’s not raw.
There are so many ugly thoughts. Even a few months ago.
I skim a page about how I missed the comfort of my eating disorder.
Another about graduation. How scared and excited I was.
That fight I had with Mom over where to spend my summer.
The night Oliver passed out on the couch.
The first time Holden answered one of my questions. God, that was so embarrassing. I was so excited. Thrilled to have any hint of his attention.
I still am.
I want him to know.
But more than that, I want him to know the rest of this. To know and accept me.
Is it really possible?
Maybe… I mean, this isn’t a good poem. It’s impossible for anyone else to understand. I wrote it and I barely understand.
I trace the words with my fingers. Repeat them to myself.
My chest gets heavy. Shame rises in my throat, but I swallow it down.
Maybe I’m not sharing this with the world. Maybe it’s ugly, but I…
No, I can’t even say it’s a part of me and I accept it. I’m not there yet. One day.
One day I’ll be brave enough to tell him.
Today…
This is as good as I can do.
“It’s really bad.” I cover the poem with my hand.
“And this?” He holds up his drawing. The moody self-portrait in blue and black.
But I can’t see the design flaws. Only the scared, lonely boy inside the troublemaker.
I want to see that side of him.
I want him to see this side of me.
“I’ll read it once,” I say. “But that’s it.”
He nods okay.
I take a deep breath. Exhale slowly.
Here goes nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Holden
Daisy’s brow furrows with concentration. He eyes fix on the paper. Fill with focus. Purpose. Determination.
Her chest heaves with her inhale. Caves with her exhale.
She opens her mouth to speak. Pauses. Like she’s mustering up the courage.
Her finger traces the first word. A doodle next to it. A heart covered in thorns.
It’s good. Every line has a purpose. The meaning is clear.
I don’t know words, but I know images. And that one—
Is that really how she feels?
Fuck, I’m not supposed to be diving that deep. Everyone’s warning me she’s been through a lot. That I’m the last thing she needs.
I don’t want it to be true. But I know better than to buy into my own hype.
She clears her throat. Begins.
I never find the right note
the hard angle
the perfect phrase
only two tiny words
not promise, or plea, or apology
but something in between
I’m sorry
I repeat the refrain
again and again
but only in my head
to the chains that used to bind me
and hold me together
I push them away
then they’re too far
and I reach higher
and higher
closer
and closer
Until I can touch, taste, feel
that sweet sick comfort
of falling together
by falling apart
I’m sorry
I say it again
sit here empty
caving from the weight on my chest
those two words
the heaviness of everything unsaid
I’m sorry
but not for the reasons
I should be
Her posture shifts as she speaks. It’s like she’s melting into the words. Like they’re coming straight from her soul.
She speaks every line with purpose and clarity.
Then she finishes, shrinks back, looks up at me with a nervous expression. “It’s…”
I don’t know what to say. I have no idea if it’s well-written. That’s way beyond my paygrade.
Hell, I don’t even know what the words are.
But that ache in her voice.
I want every ounce of it. I want to know where she hurts. To kiss it better.