Because that’s the thing—Sawyer’s just aboy. Still a few weeks off turning eighteen.
A boy carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders while he pretends to float through life on a breeze. A boy that’s been beaten and bruised every day yet expected to be as strong as everyone else.
‘Hey,’ I whisper, trying not to spook him.
Sawyer’s head whips up, bloodshot eyes snapping to my face. He goes to speak but has to clear his throat before he can properly talk. ‘Blue? Why are you here?’
Because you’re my friend and I missed you.
Because you’re the highlight of my week and I’ve never felt as clouded by darkness as the day you didn’t turn up to our session.
Sawyer holds out a hand to warn me when I take my first step into the showers, his brows drawing together. ‘Wait, stop. You’re gonna get all—’
I’m on my knees in front of him before he can finish, the hot water immediately soaking through my tights and the hem of my skirt. Water speckles my face.
I shrug. ‘I don’t mind.’
Frenzied chestnut eyes flick between mine, so much fear keeping them wide, keeping his breath shuddering out. He shakes his head, water droplets flying from the wet strands of his hair. A few locks still cling to his forehead though. ‘You shouldn’t be in here. I don’t want you getting in trouble because of me, Blue.’
‘I won’t.’
He laughs with disbelief. ‘You might.’
‘It’s worth the risk. To see if you’re okay.’
His frown deepens, as though he can’t fathom why someone would care enough about him to risk anything. As though he truly believes keeping my record pristine is more important than his wellbeing. The idea almost makes me want to laugh, because … I understand it. It’s hard to believe anyone could truly care enough about you when the ones who are supposed to have only ever hurt you.
You wouldn’t expect a dog that’s been treated cruelly in the past to trust its new owners easily. Except … I think I might finally be starting to see that it’s okay to trust. That love doesn’t always have to be synonymous with pain. And maybe I need to help Sawyer see the same.
Sawyer tries one more blow, snarling. ‘What if someone comes in and gets the wrong idea? Might think something’s going on between us. You wouldn’t want that.’
I worry my lip for a moment, ignoring his argument, and inspect the cut marring his cheek. His eyes fall back to the floor in defeat. A thin, watery line of blood trails down his face. The cut isn’t too long, just deep, even if it has healed a bit since whenever it happened last week. He probably should’ve got a couple of stitches.
I hold up my hand, keeping my voice light—safe—as I ask, ‘May I touch your face?’
Sawyer’s expression softens, and I wonder when the last time anyone asked for consent to touch him was. How many people think they can just take from and touch him without asking.
He swallows thickly. ‘Yes.’
I rub my thumb gently across his cheek, just below the cut as I follow the length of it, savouring the feel of his skin beneath my touch. It reminds me how powerful even the smallest touch can be—how being connected to him breathes hope into my very bones. Even more when he leans his head into my hand.
‘I’m so sorry, Sawyer.’ It’s all I can offer him. I can’t change what happened. I can’t stop his dad from hurting him—even though I desperately wish I could—just like he can’t stop mine. But I can give him understanding, and someone to talk to. Because I’ve spent plenty of lonely nights in my bedroom wishing someone would sit on my bed next to me. Just to be there.
Sawyer sighs out a shaky breath. ‘He threw a bottle of whisky at the wall next to my head. It smashed to pieces and a chunk of glass sliced my face … He made me not come in ’til it healed more. Didn’t let me go to the hospital to get it stitched or nothing. Too scared of the questions they’d ask. Y’know, Wyatt’s mom is a nurse there. She’d wonder.’
A sob lurches in my throat.
He scrunches up his nose, fighting the silver tears lining his eyes. ‘I don’t care that he hurt me. I think I’m almost immune to the pain now, but …’ Slowly, his hand runs up my arm to where I’m still caressing his face. ‘Can I hold you?’
The contention I expect to run wild in my mind never surfaces. Because I want it so badly. To be held by him. To finally uncover the solace I’ve thought might lie in his arms, when I’ve only ever had his hands before.
I’ve barely even nodded before Sawyer wraps his arms around me, pulling me between his legs so that I’m cradled against his chest. His heart hammers beneath my ear as his fingers splay out over my back, never dipping further than polite. It’s glorious—the way my body slots against his so easily, the way he fills the emptiness in me I’m always so aware of, the way my nerves are suddenly electrified at his touch.
With a sigh of relief, Sawyer’s body caves in, dropping further into the shower’s spray. Hot water pours over us like a relentless storm, but I happily weather it, knowing I’m safe in the arms circling me.
‘It’s my face, Blue.’ He mumbles against my head. ‘That’s theonething he never touches. I need my face—to make myself look brave, even when my body is bruised. It’s my best piece of disguise. My face is the one thing I feel like I have against him. He knows I can’t hide my face, so he can’t hurt it.’
I spread my hand out over his chest, above his racing heart. Sawyer rests his cheek against my hair, encompassing me even further into his warmth. But then he brokenly whispers, ‘Tell me something good so I don’t forget it exists, Blue.’