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WE'RE IN HER room, lying on our sides, facing each other. The lamp next to her bed is on, because the sun sets way before 5:30 p.m. these days. Her eyes are closed and her finger is tracing imaginary lines on my arm.
Both of our shirts are on the floor.
"Izzie," I murmur, pulling away.
"Mmm," she hums.
I sit up-ignoring the noise of disapproval she makes from the back of her throat-because I really do want to say something to her, something about how I've never felt so vulnerable before in my life, how it's not just the fact that we're lying in bed together, how it's more than that, it's everything about this, being together, being close, being a part of this moment right now. And I want her to know that even though it's true, I've never felt so vulnerable before in my life, I've also never trusted anyone like this. I've never trusted anyone the way I trust her right now.
But I never get around to saying all of those things. I never even get around to starting. Because when I sit up-between Izzie's disappointed noise and the moment her eyes fly open, irises warm and pupils dilated in the glare of the light-that's when I see them, running along the inside of her upper arm. Slightly raised and slightly pink against her paler skin.
Scars.
Izzie sighs. It's pretty obvious what I'm looking at.
"I didn't know."
"I never told you," she says.
"This is the first time I'm noticing."
"You weren't looking."
She sits up, too, and grabs her shirt from off the floor. I've ruined the mood.
"I don't know what to say."
"You don't need to say anything, Casey."
"But I-I want to say something. I want to say the right thing."
Izzie sighs again, pulls her shirt over his head and onto her body. I get one more glimpse of the scars as she threads her arms through her sleeves, and then they disappear from view.
"You never ... ?" she asks.
I shake my head.
"Well, that's good," she says. And then, with a bitterness I haven't heard in her voice since she told me about her mom that one afternoon: "Don't."
"Izzie ... "
"I'm going to be honest with you, Casey," she starts. "Is that okay?"
I nod. The truth is, I'm afraid of what Izzie is about to say. Just thinking about the possibilities makes my stomach lurch with helplessness.
"There was a period of time when I really hated myself. It sounds stupid to say out loud, and I wish that I had a reason for you, some way to explain why I felt the way that I did. But I don't. I don't even have an excuse. I just-one day, I just did it. And I liked it, so I kept doing it, and then I couldn't stop, and honestly, I didn't even want to stop. I know that sounds bad. I know that is bad. But it's the truth."
"Okay," I say and I reach out and take her hand. She closes her eyes, but doesn't pull away.
"And I know I should have told you sooner, but I didn't want that to be what you thought of every time you looked at me. I wanted a chance to-I don't know, I guess I wanted a chance to be more than that."
Izzie waves her hands in the air. Then she flops down onto the bed and pulls the blanket over her head.
"Thanks for sharing that with me," I say.
"You sound like my therapist," Izzie mumbles, her voice muffled under the blanket. And then we snicker, because we both know it's true.
"Did you talk to her about it?" I ask.
"Sometimes."
"Did she help?"
"Sometimes," she repeats.
"And your mom ... ?"
"She doesn't know," she says flatly, and that's that.
I lie back down, get under the covers, and pull the blankets back down so that I can see her face again. And I ignore her look of surprise as I drop a kiss on her collarbone.
"I don't know that I've felt that exact way," I begin slowly. I'm choosing my words carefully. Part of me doesn't even want to say anything, because, well, silence would be so much easier. But this is the time, and this is the right thing to do, and if I don't say something now, when will I? "I don't know that I've ever felt that-that pure self-hatred, you know, just, like, sitting there hating myself. I think I just feel very hopeless sometimes. Like there's no point in getting out of bed, there's no point in going to class, there's no point in texting Evan or Sharice, there's no point in eating, there's no point in-well, anything. And then, at that point, it's like there's this voice in my head that takes over, that starts screaming at me, Casey, what the fuck are you doing, Casey, why the fuck aren't you at school, Casey, how the fuck are you going to pass history, Casey, you're ruining your parents' marriage, and just on and on and on."
Izzie nods. She turns onto her side and starts tracing figure-eights on the side of my shoulder.
This is one of those times when it feels like my chest might explode.
"I guess I should have told you more about this when we were talking on Sharice's balcony," I say. "I mean, we were already on the subject. But I didn't. Because ... "
Our eyes meet, and the intensity makes me feel very vulnerable.
"You were afraid," Izzie finishes.
I swallow. "Because I was afraid."
"I get that, Casey," she says.
A lot of people have said those words to me before. Julia, of course, because she's my therapist and she gets paid a hefty sum every week to try and make me feel understood. My mom, probably because Julia has told her that empathy is the foundation of any good relationship or something like that. Sharice and Evan, because they really don't know what else to say.
But the thing is, I believe Izzie when she says it. I really do.
