Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 145634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
His room is so masculine, so him. But it’s devoid of warmth. It’s missing a crucial piece of him. The piece he gives to me.
The smoky grey walls are bare, the only picture sitting on the nightstand. A little boy and a young mother smile together as they pose on top of the mountain they just climbed. It must be Derek and his mom, I think as I squint slightly to make out the picture across the room better.
I can't just sit here. I get up quickly, my blood feeling as though it’s on fire, and cross the room to his bathroom. Derek’s opening a bottle of peroxide to pour on the cuts on his knuckles.
“Let me help you,” I say as I walk across the white marble floor. I take the bottle from him without waiting for a response and slowly pour the solution over his hand. His hand is so large and rough to the touch. I like holding it though. I like the abrasive feel. I concentrate on tending his knuckles. The cuts aren’t as bad as I would have guessed from the way he was hitting that guy, and the blood that was there.
But that may not have been his blood.
“You really beat the piss out of him,” I say as I twist the cap back onto the bottle. My heart feels like it’s in my throat.
His eyes are on the floor as he says, “Yeah.” He leans against the sink, his gaze occasionally flicking to mine, but I don’t look back.
“You didn’t have to, you know,” I tell him, trying not to sound like I’m scolding him. I squeeze some Neosporin onto his knuckles as he sighs and then grunts a response.
I wait, staring up at him and willing him to look at me, but he doesn’t.
“I know,” he says quietly as he shakes his head.
“So why’d you do it?” I can’t help but to ask him. Asking is the way to get answers. I know that from my classes and from working with the kids at school. I hate comparing Derek to them, but he’s like them in so many ways. Right now, all I want to do is help him.
I lay the gauze over his bloodied knuckles and wrap the medical tape around his hand while I wait for him to answer me, but nothing comes.
Derek looks like he’s not going to tell me anything, and I shake my head feeling my throat go dry. I can’t do this. I can’t be with someone who won’t talk to me. I clean up the first aid kit and put it back in the cabinet under the double sinks, not speaking as he moves out of the way.
“He reminded me of my father,” he says before I can walk out of the bathroom. I stop in the doorway, waiting for more.
“Your father?” I ask him. He only ever told me about his father once. That he’d left them, but that’s all I know. He never wanted to talk about his family.
I look over my shoulder, gripping the door in my hand and I can see the hatred and pain in his eyes. Seeing him like this feels like I’m being stabbed in the chest. I just want to hold him and take his pain away, but I need to understand.
I walk back in and lean against the granite countertop. It’s cold under my hand, but I’d rather touch it than him. If he holds me, I’ll lose focus. I’ll lose him opening up to me, and I can’t do that. “I don’t know anything about him,” I tell him with a seemingly casual shrug.
“It’s best that you don’t.”
“I wanna know.” I need to know.
“He wasn’t a good man. Like that fucker at the restaurant…” He trails off and shakes his head. “The things he was saying,” Derek shakes his head again, closing his eyes. “No woman should be talked to that way.”
“Your dad talked to your mom like that?” I ask.
“Yeah, right before he’d beat her,” he says, and I can hear the raw hurt in his voice. My heart breaks for him and I could just cry. I move closer to him and grab his unbandaged hand. I can't resist touching him.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. I reach my hand to his chest, waiting for him to look me in the eyes. “Is she alright?” I ask him.
His eyes flash with something I can't place.
“He’s gone now,” he answers, but it feels like something else. Like he’s hiding more from me.
“I want to know you, Derek,” I plead with him.
He huffs a humorless laugh and swallows thickly, looking behind me and into the mirror before returning my gaze. “I think you’re the only one who knows me.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It can’t be true. “That’d be a shame if that’s true.” I speak without thinking. I know who he is--I know his character, his soul, but I don’t know his story.