Page 43 of Ravaged With You

“I’ve always wanted you. But I can’t have you.”

“Why not? I’m here, aren’t I? What changed?”

He draws in a deep breath. “I won’t tell you that.”

I feel the tears spill down my cheeks as I put the pieces together. “The scars,” I whisper. “The ones on your arms. Did you try to kill yourself?” They’re not in the right place, but what else could they be?

He scoffs. “No. That was the one thing I never did. Maybe I should have.”

My palm lands hard against his cheek before I even realize I’m going to slap him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and I know we’re both thinking of Mel. It wasn’t suicide. But for those long, horrible hours, I’d believed that it was.

“That was a stupid thing to say,” I snap.

“I know. I’m truly sorry.”

I draw in a breath, then let it out slowly. “It was that bad?”

“It was that bad.” He holds out his arms, indicates the scars with his chin. “These aren’t from trying to kill myself. They’re to save myself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A reminder.”

“Of what?”

His face goes blank and for a moment, I think he’s slipped inside himself. Then he says, “That there are ways to cope.”

I shake my head. “You’re not making sense.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and I see a hint of humor in his eyes. “I’m not trying to.”

I scowl, then exhale. “Thanks. I mean that, by the way. It’s not my attempt at sarcasm.”

“I’m glad to hear that. But what are you thanking me for?”

“For opening up to me. Not a lot,” I add, when his eyes widen in surprise. “But a smidgeon.”

“Hmm.” He shifts on the bed, leaning toward me. “Do you promise not to ask me more questions tonight?”

“What if I say yes?”

He reaches over and folds down the covers on the other side of the bed.

“You’re sure?”

“Just sleep. Just so we’re clear.”

“I get it.”

I move to the other side of the bed, then slide in. He moves down until he’s flat, then rolls over, his back to me. “Goodnight, Jo,” he says.

“Night, Red.”

I watch him breathe in the dim light, the way his back moves. The way the tats on his arm—an abstract pattern of mostly reds and blacks that match his chest—seem to pop in the light as if they’re portents of a coming storm.

I let them lead me toward sleep, and I’m on the verge of drifting off when I realize something. “Red,” I say. “Red, we’re idiots.”