Page 180 of Piece Us Together

And then there was Carter.

“I sat there and watched.” I open my eyes, forcing myself to look at him. “What kind of man—what kind ofbrother—sits there and watches?”

He considers me for a moment. “I’d say a very strong one.”

I duck my head, moving my hands to the sweatshirt. I push against my healed ribs. I tug the sleeves up enough to see my wrists aren’t bruised or bleeding. I swallow, and it doesn’t hurt. I clench my hole and it isn’t desperate, awful pain.

“Like I said, I get it,” I mumble. “But how do I forgive myself for it? How do I live with that?”

“Have you spoken about it with Carter?”

I swallow. “No. Not recently.”

“Maybe you should. The two of you have come a long way since the safehouse. You both knew the conversation would need to be had eventually.” Something about the possibility makes me feel itchy, like down to the bone itchy. I grab my tea for something to do. “Do you think you’d be able to forgive yourself, if he forgives you?”

I try very hard not to squeeze my mug. “I don’t know.”

“What do you think scares you more, that you’ll be able to, or that you won’t?”

“Why would I be scared of being able to forgive myself?” I ask incredulously.

He adjusts his glasses. It’s such a Hunter thing to do, my chest aching at the sight of it. “Maybe you’re not ready to forgive yourself.”

“You think I shouldn’t? I know I—I know I should have to earn it…”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. Not at all. Maison—” He leans forward, placing both feet on the ground again. His elbows rest on his thighs, hands clasping loosely together. His eyebrows are bunched tight. “Maison, how would you earn it?”

I run my fingertip around the rim of the mug, over and over. It’s stopped steaming.

“Maison?”

“I didn’t go to the doctor until everyone else had. At the safehouse, I mean. I hid things. Hid how bad my injuries were. I didn’t ask for help.” I take a sip of the tea to buy myself time. It tastes awful. It doesn’t help that it’s practically cold by now too. I don’t get rid of it, though. It feels better to have something to hold. “I—um. I’d hurt myself, I guess. I don’t know. I didn’t—I don’t know.”

He takes a breath, watching me carefully. “How would you hurt yourself?”

“I didn’t, like—I didn’t really—just, you know, avoiding self-care. Being a little harder on myself than necessary.”

“How?”

I shrug, my knee bouncing again. I put the mug down and curl my hands into fists, the cotton of Hunter’s sweatshirt pressed firmly between my fingers and palm. “Burning hot showers. Not eating. Not sleeping. I’d—I’d press on my wounds. Aggravate them. I’d hit the heavy bag until I could barely walk. Use mybare fists. Just—little stuff. Little—I don’t know, little penances, I guess.”

“Maison, none of that is little.”

“It’s—”

“If Nolan told you he took a shower hot enough to burn because he felt guilty about something, would you consider that little?” I don’t answer, my knee bouncing harder. “If Hunter skipped meals and rest until he was weak from it, would that be little, too?” I close my eyes. “What about Carter? If Carter came to you with bloody fists or purposely kept splitting open his wounds?”

He lets us sit in the silence until I swear my skin is crawling.

“Do you still do these things?”

That, at least, is easier to answer. “No.”

“No?”

“I—” I glance at him, then quickly shake my head and look away. “Not…really.”

“Maison, your knuckles are split right now.”

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