Two Birds, One Stone

22. Family Fraud

I woke up to a throbbing headache.

     Laying on my back, all I could see was the off-white ceiling above me. But I didn't need to turn my head to remember where I was, or how I'd gotten there. I knew who was next to me. I could feel him like a fire; my skin burned in his proximity, and I craved to jump away from him. But I stayed where I was, skin crawling under the heat. I figured that, after everything, I deserved the burn.

    My mind did a cruel thing, then. I pictured myself turning toward Jamie, resting a hand on the smooth white of his back. Kissing between his shoulder blades, hearing his little hum in response. I would kiss his cheek, and he would pretend to scowl, but when I started to get up he would take my hand and pull me back down to him.

     I almost wanted to cry. That was all over. Now, all I could do was watch the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders as he slept.

    Jamie was a quiet sleeper. He never snored and he hardly moved; if I wasn't used to sharing a bed with him, I might've thought he didn't breathe at all. But he always responded unconsciously to touch. I remembered the nights we'd spent at Stevie's apartment, and all the times he'd fallen asleep in my lap after hours of studying, safe behind my locked bedroom door. He was so much more vulnerable when he slept. I could put my hand over his, and he would unknowingly intertwine his fingers with mine; I could touch his face, or his hair, and he would lean into it. It was his silent way of admitting that liked -- maybe even needed -- the affection.

    I didn't dare touch him now, though. Somehow I knew that if I did, and he didn't respond the same way, I would be more heartbroken that any angry words or hateful glares could ever make me. And if I did, and he did respond the same way . . . then I was taking something that wasn't mine. He would never know, but I would feel like a criminal.

     So instead, I took my fill of him from a distance, knowing that this was probably the last time I would ever see him like this. Last night had been a moment of weakness; I knew that he wouldn't let it happen again. This was meant to be something like closure -- after all, we were right back where we'd started.

     It didn't feel like closure.

    The tattoo along his spine -- the wilting daisy -- seemed to stand darker than ever against his pale skin. Finally, I could give it a meaning that I understood. Not the one he'd intended, not one he'd ever know; one that would only ever be significant to me.

     Daisies were the flowers of innocence and purity. I couldn't say that our relationship had been pure, exactly; we had worked so well because we were gritty and choppy and chaotic, because we started out filthy and never truly cleaned up our act. Still, there was something innocent about a first love. Innocent and fragile. Easy to destroy; much harder to save.

    I didn't let myself linger on the fact that it wasn't impossible. That a dying flower could be revived if acted on soon enough. There was no soon enough for us.

    I turned my eyes back to the ceiling when I felt the bed shift next to me. Jamie rubbed his face, ran a hand through his sleep-roused hair. I was sure he was awake, but he didn't say anything. He simply rolled onto his back and followed my gaze upward.

    The room was quiet enough to make my ears ring. The air was almost too thick to breathe. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, only to hold another in tense anticipation of his first words. I hung onto every inhale and exhale of his, torturing myself with guesses of what he might have to say to me. Trying and failing to remind myself that, whatever it was, it wouldn't be good.