Page 65 of Unlocking Ruin

“Maybe we need a twelve-step program,” I suggest, as he floats around the kitchen grabbing napkins. We were both less than proper five minutes ago. Why do we need cloth napkins to eat cereal?

Rich people are so odd.

“I can think of twelve things to curb my addiction,” he adds, glancing at me through his thick lashes.

Steffen likes to cling to our lust for one another when we get too close to our demons. I want to know why.

“You want to fix me, but you won’t let me heal you,” I say without apology. His eyes look to the left.

“I don’t want to fix you. You’re not broken yet, Rylan. I just want you to see how strong you can be. Our world will gobble you up. I want to make sure you can survive.”

“And what about you?”

“I know the solution to my problem,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “At least I thought I did,” he murmurs, eyes drifting to my shadow.

“Take your shirt off,” I demand.

He freezes. I clarify, “I want to see what you wanted to keep hidden from me. If you want me to trust you, it shouldn’t be so hard.”

The vein in his neck pulses. He comes closer, puts the napkins next to me, then grabs his shirt and peels it off. Under the full kitchen light, I see every detail. Every scar.

I can’t look at him, not when my eyes feel misty. That’s a severe burn. His torso looks like melted wax scraped together to form a candle again. Some tattoos are mangled, melted into the skin; others are dark and new.

I blink rapidly and cough. I look up and meet his fiery eyes. “You think I’m scared of scars?” I gulp and stop my legs from swinging.

“I think you’re frightened of how I got them.” His reply is a whisper that tries to elude my ears.

“Try me,” I state. I have to press my lips into a thin line so he can’t see them tremble.

He shakes his head, slow and final.

“Will you ever?”

“One day,” he replies, as he tosses his shirt onto the island. “But not tonight. Tonight I choose to savor the taste of you on my tongue. I won’t let my ghost have it.”

To hell with it.

I jump off the countertop, open my arms, and hug him. At first, it feels so awkward I almost run away. Then his arms close around me. His lips press into my hair as he kisses my head and anchors me to him.

It’s still an odd feeling, but I want to get used to it—being held, having someone to hold.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. A tear wets his chest. I know he feels it. Closing my eyes, I listen to his heartbeat.

“I am too, Rylan,” he replies with heavy grief.

We remain there, embracing. Eventually, I pull away.

“Was my hug good?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m not used to giving them.”

“It was the best I’ve ever had.” His lip twitches. “But if you feel the need to practice, I’m always here.”

I smile, my eyes dropping to the scars again. My hand reaches out; his breath gets stuck in his throat as I run my fingertips over the worst parts of him. His jaw clenches, teeth grinding, eyes closed.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

He explains, “The nerves are damaged”—he looks down at his mangled skin—“but sometimes I get phantom sensations: an itch I can’t scratch, a sharp pain.” He lifts one shoulder, but I can see the frustration and grief in his thin lips.

I glance up. “Bet you wish the memories were numb too,” I say.