Page 74 of False Start
I’m withdrawing.
I’m fucking up my life again, and all it took was two months without speaking to my mother.
I want to call Ryan. I want to cry to him and tell him he was right, that I should have listened. I want him to make some stupid joke about the system, about how it gets us all in some way or another before he fixes this for me.
Because someone elsealwaysfixes it for me.
Except Ryan isn’t coming, and the only person I haven’t shut out doesn’t know me well enough to realize I’m not worth any of this.
I’m shaky, no part of me strong enough to do anything, but I somehow muster the energy to get to the bathroom. I wipe my nose again. Fuck, it’s rubbed raw, sensitive, and when I pull myself up to a stand, I look in the mirror and see why. My complexion is lackluster, but my nose is a bright rouge from rubbing. Scratch marks claw up my neck and down my arms from the sleep that clearly wasn’t so deep.
This is just the beginning, though.
And it’s exactly why I’ve already given up.
Gripping the edge of the sink, I stare just a little longer, just enough to hate myself a little more. My nose begins to drip again, and I go to wipe on my shoulder, but I catch myself before I somehow do any more damage to my face. Turning the faucet on, leaving the water cold and splashing it up into my face, I do it once then a second time before I feel a little less gross.
I don’t know where my toothbrush is.
I don’t know where any of my things are, but they’rehere, in her house somewhere, and that’s enough to alleviate my panic. I squeeze a glob of toothpaste onto my finger and scrub for a solid minute, deciding it’ll have to do for now before rinsing.
When I come out of the bathroom, she’s standing in the kitchen, putting away clean plates out of the dishwasher with a look of focus on her face. “Hi.” I bid for her attention, still standing just outside the bathroom door.
Her head shoots up, eyes widening once she sees the state I’m in, but a placated smile quickly masks her face. She doesn’t reach for another dish. Instead, it takes her just a few seconds to get to me, to hold me in her arms. It’s not until then that I realize I’m shaking. Her squeezing me somehow makes it better, though, and her hand slides up to cup my face. I lean my cheek into her touch and close my eyes.
The feeling is starting to become too familiar, too reliable, too soothing.
She slides her hand past my face, fingers grazing the buzzed side of my head, where the thick scar raises. Her touch is gentle, explorative as she somehow makes the ache in my head nearly tolerable.
“How are you feeling?” Her voice is low and hushed, like she knows anything else would be painful.
My only response is a groan, leaning further into her as she continues to rub her fingers against my scalp. She pulls me into her body, and I’m suddenly no longer holding myself up, in her arms again. The thought that Cat is everything I’ve ever needed is both overwhelming and terrifying.
Because I still have yet to know what I am to her.
I think about her hobby room.
My mind takes me to that bad place, and I’m suddenlyconvincing myself that I’m just her next project, the next thing for her to work on.
“Harvey.” I open my eyes to find her staring straight through me. “What are you doing with me?” My breathing becomes shallow, and the words themselves churn my stomach.
“Isn’t it obvious?” She smirks, her hand now back on my cheek, like she knows I can’t help but be drawn to the touch.
It’s my favorite place to be: held, protected by her.
She knows it, and she’s trying to pacify me.
“I need the truth, Cat.” I snap my eyes open and try to push her away, reserving the use of her first name so she knows I’m not happy.
She only holds me tighter.
“What do you need from me, baby? Reassurance? You have it. You’re my girl.” Her face is close, her eyes on mine, but I’m zeroed in on her lips.
“Iknow,” I bite back, the coldness wrapping around my words. The idea of Cat being attracted to someone else doesn’t even feel logistical in my brain. She knows that’s not what I want to hear.
She knows, because shealwaysknows what I want.
She’s leaning over me, her forearm against the wall as she looks down on the shrunken version of me I’ve become. “Do you wanna ask me ifI’m yourstoo?”
