Page 24 of Almost True
Korren tucks his arms against his stomach and doesn’t answer.
“Tell me you’re not doing it any longer.”
Korren’s head is hanging down, his hair curtaining his face. He whispers, “I’m not.”
I reach out a gentle hand and unlatch one of his arms from his stomach. I hope he’s telling the truth. A couple of the scars are red, but they’ve obviously healed up, and the rest are just puffy skin. I run a thumb over the ridges, stomach twisting at the thought of Korren so miserable that he carved into his own wrist.
“You’re not suicidal, are you?” I ask, tightening my grip on his arm.
“No.”
He must know I’m not convinced, because he mutters, “It was a fucking huge effort getting this job and making my way up here. This is me trying to put my life back together, all right? If I wanted to give up, I would’ve just fucking kept doing what I was doing before.”
I slide my hand into his and grip it. “If that ever changes, I need you to swear you’ll tell me.”
“I’m not your fucking boyfriend,” Korren mumbles.
I give him a threatening look.
“Fine. I’ll tell you.”
Then he pulls his hand out of mine and escapes the bathroom, leaving me to slide down to the floor, weak and shaky.
Suddenly this whole thing doesn’t feel like a game any longer.
Chapter 18
Korren
It’s a relief when we head back to work the next morning. This weekend has been super intense in so many ways, and even though they’re not all bad, I don’t want to think about how many of my secrets Dex is uncovering. Or how vulnerable I’m starting to feel around him.
I hate that he saw my scars. It’s something I wasn’t planning on showing anyone, ever, because it’s proof that I was in a dark enough place for a while there that I wanted everything to end.
And I’m worried Dex will never see past that.
He’ll look at me, and all he’ll think about is how depressed I was, how much he has to worry about me going back there.
And I don’t think that’s true. At least I hope it’s not. I think I’m getting better, but it’s going to be hard not to spiral when I see him looking at me like I’m a fucking suicide risk all the time.
But of course Dex is better than that. He’s a fucking godsend.
He’s made coffee for me, and when he wishes me good morning, he says, “That mattress was incredible. Best place I’ve slept in ages.” Then he gives me a wicked grin and says, “I bet you wish you were sharing with me.”
“No way in hell. But now that I know how comfortable the bed is, I’ve got extra incentive to win this cabin for myself.”
“You wish.”
It’s as if nothing has changed.
We just have time to gulp down our coffees before we head to work. And it’s incredible to have clean clothes and clean hair for once.
This time, when Dex takes my hand, there’s an intimacy to it that wasn’t there before. It feels like he’s affirming thateverything he’s learned about me is okay, and he isn’t going to think differently of me for it.
When we get home that evening, there’s a stack of clean clothes waiting on the couch. I don’t even recognize them as mine at first, and when I do, I pin Dex with a challenging stare. “How the hell did you pull this off?”
He does a dorky little wave of his fingers. “Magic.”
“Right. Sure.”
