“Hi,” he says, breaking into a breathtaking smile. His chest falls heavily, nearly in sync with my uneven rhythm.
“Hi,” I whisper. A large distance separates us, reminding me of when he first left for rehab. Picking up a foot and closing the gap feels like crawling up a ninety-degree angle. I need him to help me reach the top.
He takes a step near me, snapping the tension. All these sensations burst in my belly. I love him so much. I missed him so much. For three months, I felt the pain of being separated from my best friend while trying to fight my sexual compulsions. I needed him to tell me everything was going to be okay.
I needed him by my side, but I would never take him from rehab for my benefit, not when it would be detrimental to his recovery. And I want Lo to be healthy more than anything. And I want him to be happy.
“I’m back,” he murmurs.
I try to restrain my tears, but they flow unwillingly, sliding from the creases of my eyes. I should be emerging from the doorway to greet him, and he should be the one lingering on the porch stairs. Why are we so backwards all the time?
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, wiping my eyes slowly. “I should have been here an hour ago…”
He shakes his head and his brows pinch together like don’t worry about that.
I stare at the length of him again with a more confident nod. “You look good.” I can’t tell that he’s sober exactly. He hasn’t lost that look in his eye—the one that seems to kiss my soul and trap me altogether. But he’s not beaten or withered or gaunt. In fact, he has more muscle to his name, his biceps supremely cut. And after a Skype session some time ago, I know his whole body matches those arms.
I wait for him to say so do you, but his eyes trail me once more, and I watch the way his chest collapses and his face twists in pain.
I blink. “What is it?” I glance down at my body. I wear jeans and a loose-fitting V-neck, nothing out of the ordinary. I wonder if I spilled coffee on my jeans or something, but I don’t see what he does.
Instead of telling me what worries him, he inches forward, the deep hurt in his eyes frightening me. What did I do wrong? I shuffle back—a reaction I hardly would have predicted for today. I nearly stumble down the stairs, but his arm swoops around my waist, drawing me to his chest, saving me from a plummet into the grass below.
His warmness snares me, and I clutch his arms, afraid to let go. He stares intensely before his gaze drifts to my arms…my hands. He peels one off his bicep, his fingers skimming over mine, stealing the breath right from my lungs. He raises my hand in between us and then lifts my elbow, giving me a good view of my arm.
My chest sinks, realizing the source of his confusion and hurt.
“What the hell, Lil?” he says.
I scratched my arm raw during the last therapy session yesterday, and an ugly red welt will most likely scab tomorrow. Even with gross, bitten fingernails, I managed to irritate my skin.
Lo inspects my nails, his nose flaring to hold back even more emotion.
“I’m fine. I was just…anxious yesterday. Therapy was harder. You were coming home…” I don’t want to talk about this now. I want him to hold me. I want our reunion to be epic—The Notebook worthy. And my stupid anxiety and bad habit has ruined the perfect outcome I imagined. I reclaim my hand and touch his jaw, forcing him to stop focusing on my problems. “I’m okay.”
The words feel a little false. I am not one-hundred percent okay. These past three months were a test I could have easily failed. At times, I thought giving up was better than fighting. But I made it. I’m here.
Lo’s here.
That’s all that matters.
His arms suddenly slide around my back, and he melds my body to his. His lips brush the top of my ear, sending shivers spiraling across my neck. He whispers, “Please don’t lie to me.”
My mouth falls. “I didn’t…” But I can’t finish because tears begin to pool, burning on their way down. I grip his shoulders, holding him tighter, afraid he plans to pull away and leave me broken on the porch. “I’m sorry,” I choke. “Don’t go…”
He edges back, and I cling harder, desperate and afraid. He’s a lifeline I cannot quantify or articulate. I depend on him more than any girl should depend on a boy, but he’s been the backbone of my life. Without him, I will fall.
“Hey.” He gathers my face in his hands. His glassy eyes bring me back to reality. To the fact that he feels my pain just as I feel his. That’s the problem. We hurt so much for each other that it’s hard to say no. It’s hard to take away the vice that will numb the agony of the day. “I’m here,” he says, a silent tear dripping down his cheek. “We’re going to beat this together.”