Page 268 of The Lies We Play

I don't remember deciding to move.

The closer I get, the more human he becomes, which is unfair. The corner of his mouth. The tired lines near his eyes. A small scar near his brow. The scent of soap, clean cotton, and something warmer beneath it. His throat works once. His right hand curls and uncurls at his side, as if it misses having a coin to worry across his knuckles.

I stop close enough to touch him.

I don't.

His gaze drops to my mouth for less than a second.

Mine drops to his wrist.

The tattoo is darker than mine, or maybe it only seems that way on him. On Creed, the mark looks less like decoration and more like a vow that has learned how to survive without witnesses.

My fingers lift before I can stop them.

I stop an inch from his skin.

Creed’s eyes close.

Not fully. Not long. Just enough to tell me he felt the ghost of a touch.

That is the first thing I understand tonight with absolute clarity. He has been living inside me for almost ten years.

I lower my hand.

His eyes open.

There is pain in them and also patience.

My breath leaves wrong.

“Hi, Hal,” he says.

Two words.

My name in his mouth is not the name my family uses.

It is smaller. Warmer. Devastating in its lack of ceremony.

Hal.

I don't have anything to say.

Which is unfortunate, because I have spent a couple of days writing what I would say. I drafted whole sentences in the dark. I rehearsed lines. ‘I don't know you, and my body does. I have been told a version of myself I’m no longer convinced is the only one. I have a question that doesn't have language yet.’ All of them, every one of them, falls out of my head the second Creed says, ‘Hi, Hal.’

I lift my left hand.

I take his.

My thumb finds the trinity knot like the ink is iron and I am the magnet, and it presses there with a small, involuntary pressure that is going to ruin me if I let myself think about what it means.

Creed inhales.

Once.

It is not a sound a person makes on purpose.

His right hand lifts.