I think that’s a lie.
I think what we did was more than just walk. I don’t continue talking about it. The room is quiet, but the building isn’t. Pipes, someone's music two doors down, muffled laughter from the corridor. It’s only my first night on campus, but I can already imagine these are ordinary sounds of a university at night.
I peer past Erik, at a picture frame on his side table, of our family, me, Mum, Dad, and him, and I wonder—does he have a girlfriend? He never mentions one when we video call once or twice a week. He always just wants to see my room, talk about me, and have me show him all the new songs that I’ve learned.
“Blesk?”
I look at him, hopeful he is about to apologise for tonight. “Yeah?”
Then he holds his hand out to me. Palm up.
I stare at it. Blink. Feeling his eyes on my face, a blush creeps up my neck.
His voice is raspy as he says, “Remember?"
I remember.
Of course, I remember.
She was eight years old and flinched at the air, and he sat across from her, and he said, ‘I'm going to touch you, count to three first.’It actually worked. He fixed something in her that was broken, and then he hung her stars and moon.
He fixed you.
I glance from his hand to his serious gaze. “I don’t flinch anymore, Erik.”
Something dark shifts through his gaze, and he clenches his teeth, saying, “And why is that?”
I exhale hard.
Because of you.
And the touch game.
I hold my hand out.
Palm up.
He begins to count, “One, two, three,” and taps the centre of my palm, and I sigh, filled with warmth and appreciation because I’ve always been able to rely on gentleness from him. In all the touches, in every moment, he’s always gentle—understanding.
For someone who grew up without a gentle hand from ages nothing to eight, that means everything.
His finger comes back to my palm and circles the centre, and his eyes hold mine, and I think… We need to talk. About what the rules are here. How I will probably want to have dates, and what he wants me to do in those situations? Should the guy meet him first?
His finger keeps moving on my palm. I feel that underwater stillness, no noise, no danger, no one else to drag me to safety or pull me down, but for the first time, I wonder if I’m drowning.
I pull my hand back. "I really need to shower," I say, the excuse forming before I've decided to use it.
"Okay," he says, his voice thick.
He doesn't move as I stand and walk to the only door in the room. I open it to find a neat bathroom with a toilet and shower all decorated in blues and whites. Someone chose blue for trust. It’s the colour of trust; I learned that in marketing in high school.
The bathroom is also his. Completely, visibly his. I shared a bathroom at home with him for years.
I walk inside, letting the door swing shut behind me. While gazing at his products lined up on the shelf, I kick off my shoes and undress, going through the motions. I didn’t know I wanted a shower until I did. I’m naked when I turn the water on and test it with my wrist.
Shoes shuffle on the tiles.
I gasp and look over my shoulder to find Erikwalking inside. My mouth opens. Closes. He sits on the toilet lid, and something inside me freezes.