Page 74 of Shamed
“Like shit,” I admit, tugging at the cuffs of my hoodie.
He jerks his chin at my couch. “Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll bring you a plate. I brought fruit salad, some bacon pieces, and a donut. Oh, and coffee. Hopefully, it’ll all help you feel better.”
“Stop being so nice to me,” sits on the edge of my tongue, but I keep my mouth shut as I take a seat, curling my feet up under the cushion. Even knowing that I shouldn’t be accepting this kindness—and certainly shouldn’t be encouragingit—doesn’t stop my stomach from grumbling at the food he mentioned.
“I’m . . . really embarrassed about last night,” I admit, getting it out of the way because it’s preferable to drawing it out. “That wasn’t me. I-I never do that stuff.”
I watch him as he pushes his sleeves up, revealing the swirling tattoos there, then pulls items out of the bag. He’s dressed in black joggers and a black jacket with the gym logo on it.
Black suits him in every way, I decide. Like it was made specifically for him, or he was made from it.
Mase shoots me a quick glance. “I have to admit, it was a little concerning.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t owe me an apology.”
After pulling a plate off the drying rack, he piles some of the food onto it and brings it over to me, placing the coffee on the small table beside my couch. I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t drink coffee.
I accept the plate from him, watching as his eyes drop to my outstretched arm. It’s covered, but I know he can still see every shameful hidden mark.
Clearing my throat, I settle back into the couch with my plate on my lap. “Are you not having any?”
“I already ate.” Mase walks back to the kitchen to grab his own coffee, then leans against the counter. “And I actually have to leave for work shortly.”
“Oh.” I pick up a piece of fruit and chew on it, trying to ignore the many elephants taking up space in the room.
But then he speaks again, and suddenly, the elephants are the only things I can see. “Your arms.” They’re only two words, yet they carry the weight of a novel. Two words that are filled with questions and feelings and stories and things to be kept hidden. He looks like he’s searching for the right words to say, the right thing to ask. “Why?”
My heartbeat feels louder, my breaths a little faster, and the thought that I might get sick after all fills my insides.
Why?
I try to answer as best as I can, because I owe himsomething, don’t I?
“Most people use a calendar to mark off the days passed.”
A horrified look passes over his face, much like last night, before he smothers it, his eyes dropping back to my arms covered by sleeves.
He’s doing the math to what he assumes was my starting point. He’s right, but also very wrong.
There are close to three thousand five hundred marks.
There isn’t a single part of the inside of each forearm that hasn’t been touched, and some parts of the outside as well.
I drop my gaze to my plate, popping another piece of fruit into my mouth to chew slowly.
The juice seems too sweet for this moment.
My head jerks up in surprise when Mase crouches in front of me, my widened eyes landing on his. “May I?” Slowly, he reaches for one of my hands, and when I don’t pull away, he carefully slides my sleeve up.
I just sit here, frozen, heart pounding,lettinghim do it.
Why am Ilettinghim?
Gently, he runs his thumbs over the roughened skin, as if he didn’t believe what his eyes showed him last night.
Andstill, I let him.
