Page 17 of I'll Look for You, Everywhere
MAGDALEN
Theo smirks and walks towards me with three quick steps. ‘I’ve been away a while, I don’t expect you to remember all my amazing attributes.’ His tone is light-hearted, but a muscle feathers in his jaw and his fingers drum against his thigh. He’s anxious.
I snort, and glance around the empty parking lot to make sure no drunk patrons come dancing to their car. God, I’m an idiot. Already, I can see my mother rolling her eyes when she finds out that I managed to only make it an hour in the club. I chew the inside of my cheek, a spark of anger flickering at both my own predictability and my mother’s judgement. Looking around into the darkness, I feel myself on the precipice of tears. Why am I always on the outside? The blood is thickening on my back, soaking through my shirt with every second that passes. Anika, as always, was right. I should have worn a fucking bra.
Even the idea of him looking at my naked back frightens me. Cazzo, I am seriously fucked up. A groan of frustration escapes me; I feel pathetic and tired. Theo stands in front of me and slowly raises his hand to place it on my shoulder, silently asking me to turn around, or asking for permission to touch me. Am I that fucking frigid that he can’t touch my shoulder without needing to ask me? If it were Anika, she’d strip naked and laugh, dancing until the blood dried. Emily would seductively unbutton her shirt and pour vodka over the cut without even flinching. I look at him for a moment; his eyes are stern and without compromise. He must be so bored with my foolishness. I sigh and turn around.
‘I’m really sor—’
‘Say it one more fucking time.’ His breath tickles my ear as he reaches for the car door handle behind me.
After an awkward and painful drive back to the house, Theo opens the gate and walks us into my family kitchen, holding tightly as he guides us through the doorway. Just hours ago, it was me leading him in here, and now I’m hobbling pathetically behind him. I glance out the window, seeing the light on in the Sinclairs’ kitchen, and know the parents have migrated there for the night. I remain quiet, partly because the adrenaline is beginning to wear away, but mostly because I’ve never seen Theo angry before and I’d rather not witness it tonight.
‘I know you said not to say it again, but I need to apologize for this mess.’
Theo’s back stiffens.
‘Last time, I promise,’ I mumble. I try to stretch my shoulder blades but the movement causes me to bend over with pain. Suddenly Theo turns around and, with gentleness, he lifts me by the waist to sit on the counter, so our eyes are level.
‘Hey.’ His fingers graze my bare skin and I flinch at the contact, my heart pounding. He smells of clean cotton and sunscreen and continues holding me, either not noticing my reaction or just ignoring it out of politeness. I can feel the warmth of him as he steps closer. Tentatively, his hands travel down my waist to rest on my hips, and he dips his fingers beneath my shirt to pull it up. The fabric welds to some dried blood and a sharp pain causes me to flex my hand on the wooden countertop to stop me from making a sound, not wanting to draw any more attention to myself than I already have.
Yet he briefly squeezes my wrist, knowing that it would hurt, and anticipating my refusal to admit it. I take a breath out, more grateful for his closeness than I should be. And then I feel his lips against my ear as he tries to get a better look at my back.
‘That’s it. Lift your shirt for me,’ he whispers, obviously trying to comfort me.
My throat goes dry. He’s just trying to help, Magdalen! Don’t overthink it. I tilt my head to look at him. ‘Can you do it? Everything’s starting to hurt.’
His eyes darken but he quickly blinks it away. Walking around me so he’s facing my back, I hear him exhale and mumble, ‘Yeah, sure,’ while he lifts my shirt until it reaches the middle of my spine. But then I feel him stiffen behind me.
‘No, I think there is a bigger cut further up.’ I try to lift my arms again to instruct him, but a sharp, burning pain halts my movement.
Theo coughs awkwardly. ‘Yeah, I know.’ He shifts on his heels. ‘But I’ve reached,’ he clears his throat, his discomfort palpable, ‘an impasse.’
Momentarily confused, I look down to see the shirt has ridden up below my breasts.
‘Oh, I see.’
‘May I?’
A huff of annoyance escapes me. ‘Yes, Theo, you may.’ I roll my eyes at his formality, my discomfort turning into impatience. My tits have been referred to as an impasse, a problem, a fucking obstruction! This must be a new low. Wanting to go upstairs, to cry in the tub, to sulk in my bloody sadness, I swallow the lump forming in my throat and raise my chin. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, realizing he must look at me like a little sister as he touches me with clinical distance. This is all too much.
It’s not that I want Theo to look at me as anything other than an impasse, but his hands are hovering over me as if touching me, even for a second, would be grotesque. At the club, for a second, I thought maybe... No. Not even going to humour that.
I exhale loudly, nerves spreading wildly in my stomach.
‘Tell me if it’s too much,’ Theo says deeply. ‘I can cut the shirt if it’s painful.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘You’re not. But I’ll help you get there.’
As he begins to lift the shirt, his fingers pause briefly and he sucks in a breath. I freeze, mortified when I realize he’s looking at the burn marks. Stupid! How could you forget about the marks? I open my mouth to say something, my mind racing for an excuse. I think about jumping off the counter and running upstairs but I’m so tired that I think I’d only make it to the hall before he caught me. Resigned, I stay seated, frozen as his fingers outline each ugly mark like he’s taking his time to learn them. Callused fingers stroke their shapes. Don’t ask, Theo. Please, don’t ask.
I fight a shiver at the lightness of his touch and, despite being behind me, I can hear him wondering. I know he wants to ask. His knuckles graze the marks one last time and he clears his throat, moving on.
I breathe out, grateful for his silence, and then he dips underneath the swell of my breast, trailing along the sides with my shirt with agonizing slowness. My heartbeat quickens again as his palm brushes the edge of my nipple and I hear him suck in a breath. He drops his hands.
‘I’m going to get some antiseptic wipes for these.’ His voice is hoarse, a slight tremor at the end of his sentence, and I wonder if doing this has made him upset. Is this that weird for him? His earlier words about my boobs being nothing extraordinary are enough to confirm that he’s not enjoying this. Certainly not fantasizing about my blood-covered breasts. Before I can tell him that he can stop, that none of this is necessary, he disappears into the laundry room attached to the kitchen. I self-consciously cover myself with my hands, even though no one is here to see me exposed.
