Lochlan doesn't like heavy-heavy metal. No death metal, no gloom. He doesn't like chocolate cake or lip gloss either for that matter, and he definitely doesn't like it when he has to keep secrets because then his hands are tied and he feels weighted down, burdened by circumstances beyond his control.
I sat on the lowered tailgate of his truck while he paced back and forth in front of me. I kept wiping my eyes with the bottom halves of my palms. I think all I succeeded in doing was mixing dirt with tears, leaving streaks across my nose. I am hitching, hiccuping, at the tail end of a fearful crying jag that lasted much of the day today and the night before too.
He is thinking. He keeps checking me, making sure I don't take off again. He is working every angle in his head. I think I am done running. I have no energy left and I couldn't outrun Lochlan if I tried. I have tried. He's older, stronger, faster. He's my safety besides.
If I run from him, where in the world am I supposed to go?
My hands are fluttering. I'm picking at his sweatshirt that he put on me because I was shivering so badly. It hurts. Everything hurts. He stops and walks over to me and takes my face in his hands. He presses his forehead against mine.
I'm thinking. Okay? Just let me make sure we're not making any mistakes here. Please, Bridge, just let me think. Stop doing that with your hands. Oh, God, please just stop it. You'll be okay. I'm not going to let anyone take you away from me.
I have left again and I don't hear what he says. The heat of the sun broiling the top of my head does nothing to warm my legs, flush against the cool metal of the truck bed. The cold spreads through me and my brain runs through the door again because someone keeps leaving the door ajar.
