The words hit like a punch and I have to look away.
"In juvie I learned how to survive," I say. "I learned how to fight, how to hurt people, how to make them back off. And I learned that I'm good at it. The violence comes easy."
"Okay."
"That doesn't scare you?"
"No."
"It should."
"Stop telling me what I should feel."
I almost smile. "You're stubborn."
"You're evasive."
"Fair."
The wind picks up and she shivers. I want to put my arm around her but I don't.
"I made a promise to myself in juvie," I say. "Never to lose control again, never to let the violence win. And I've kept that promise for eight years."
"And?"
"And you make it harder to keep."
She turns to face me. "How?"
"Because when I'm near you, I want to let my guard down. I want to stop controlling every reaction. And that terrifies me."
"Why?"
"Because the second I stop controlling it is the second someone gets hurt."
"You think you're going to hurt me?"
"I think I'm capable of it."
She steps closer. "I'm not afraid of you, Rush."
"You should be."
"Stop saying that."
"It's true."
"No, it's you being scared and using me as an excuse."
She's right and I hate it. I am scared and I am using her as an excuse.
But that doesn't make the fear less real.
"I don't know how to do this," I say.
"Do what?"
"Let someone in without destroying them."