Page 327 of Off Limits: The Firsts
In time.
In silence and with gritted teeth, I rise from the bed and pull on my jeans and shirt. All the while, she stares out the window, ignoring the tension settling into place.
With my keys in my hand, I walk toward where she stands. “Your past sure as fuck doesn’t define the woman you are . . . and it isn’t my business, regardless of how much I care about you and want to make sure you’re okay. Em, I was there, and I feel like you hold it against me—”
“Or maybe I’m just this hostile with all men,” she whispers, never turning to face me, but I can hear the pain in her voice and hate that I put it there.
I take the final step to her and hear her breath catch as I press my lips to the back of her shoulder. “Nah, I think it’s particular to me.” She nods but doesn’t step away from me. “Can we somehow wipe the slate clean?”
“How, though?” Confusion laces her voice, and her willingness to even ask that question is telling. It doesn’t matter how much I think I know about her past, I don’t have a goddamn clue about the demons she still battles. And battle she does. Even now, she’s fighting them with loud declarations of denial and softly whispered pleas for help.
“From here on out, we forget the memories and just chase the moments,” I say with another press of my lips to her skin before walking out the door.
“If I had a secret, could I tell you and would you promise not to tell anyone in the whole wide world?”
“Huh? Yeah. Sure.” I’m at the good part in my RL Stine book and don’t want to stop.
“I’m serious.”
She is serious. When I look up from my book, I realize she’s been crying. Like red-eyes crying. But she’s wearing her favorite purple dress with sparkly black shoes—the one she calls her “pop star” outfit.
“What’s wrong?” She doesn’t move other than to look over her shoulder toward where her house is and then back to me. “Emmy?”
“Never mind. I’m fine.” She smiles as she sits beside me but makes a funny sound when she does. Like she’s trying not to cry.
“You okay?” Something’s wrong with her. Emmy never cries.
She bites her bottom lip and nods before looking over her shoulder again. Something’s wrong.
“Em?” I nudge her with my elbow. “If you’re gonna tell me, then you need to tell me quick because my mom’s gonna come out soon with my lunch, and then we’re going to have to walk to school. So what’s wrong?”
“You have to pinky promise, Grant Malone, that if I tell you this secret, you won’t ever tell another person, ever, ever, ever. If you do, I’ll never be your friend again. Promise me. Cross your heart and hope to die.”
“But I—”
“Not even your mom or dad or brothers or anyone.” Her eyes fill with tears again. Girls and tears. I’d roll my eyes if she weren’t so upset.
“Okay. I promise.” I cross my heart and link pinkies with her. “Is that good?”
“Yeah. You really promise?”
“Yes. I promise. What’s the big deal?”
“You know how my mom goes to work at night?”
“At the hospital? Yeah. It’s super cool she gets to help people.”
She nods and licks her lips and then looks down to where she’s picking the skin around her thumbnail so it bleeds. “Well, when she goes to work, sometimes my dad hurts me.”
“Hurts you? Like he spanks you when you get in trouble?” I’d give anything to have a mom like hers who doesn’t believe in the belt on your bottom. My dad says it builds respect. I say it builds a sore butt.
“No.”
“No? Then . . .”
“He comes in my room and holds a gun to my head and molests me.”
A tear drops on her thumb, but all I hear is the word “gun.” I don’t know what molests means, but I know guns are serious. The million lectures my dad has given me and my brothers to never touch one fill my head, and I know this is bad, but . . .
