Page 93 of The Sound of Him

He opens the bag and carefully tips the contents of it out into the cup of his left hand.Someof the contents, at least. I can still hear a few of the items clinking around when he sets the bag down on the couch.

There are four small rocks displayed in his hand when he holds it toward me. I lean in, realizing what they are as I scan them: the dark blue stone with little swirls carved into it, the bright pink stone with the dotted pattern, the minty-green stone with a smooth dip in the center, and the multi-shaded purple with a natural-looking crystal texture.

“Adam gave you worry stones.” His eyebrows are pulled together when I glance at his face. “Sorry - Dr. Singh. I forget that he’s Dr. Singh to most of you. These are pretty nice. I like the colors.”

He nods with an almost-smile, wiggling his fingers a little so the rocks gently dance along his palm.

“I’ve been practicing signing, whenever I get the chance.I have a little app on my phone that sends me reminders to do five minutes here and there.” I shrug. “I don’t know the sign for ‘worry’, but I know the sign for ‘upset’.” I show him the sign before laughing a little under my breath. “I guess upset stones don’t sound as cool though, do they?”

He shakes his head in agreement, his eyes smiling even if his lips aren’t. He repeats the sign anyway,Upset, then makes a face that seems to sayyeah, doesn’t sound very good.

I’ve noticed that the more comfortable he’s gotten with me, the more expressive his face has become. I’m starting to be able to read him. I like that. I don’t know what it means, if it even means anything at all, but I like it all the same.

Matt plucks one of the stones from his palm - the deep blue one - and offers it to me. I take it like it’s as breakable as fine china. I don’t thank him, not wanting to assume it’s a gift. I just tell him, “This is beautiful.”

He carefully slips the other three rocks back into the bag, sets the bag down by his side, and picks up his notebook. I let myself gently roll the rock with my thumb as he writes. It’s more than just dark blue, I realize. When the light above catches on it, there are little specks of violet, miniscule fissures of a brighter blue, and swirls of a blue so deep it’s nearly black. It reminds me of the galaxy. Of the stars. I’m suddenly 13 years old in the bed of Keaton’s pickup truck - the truck Kellan always called his ‘redneck disgrace’ that wasn’t allowed to be parked out front. We had driven over an hour with my new telescope, Creed and Radiohead and Linkin Park playing on the radio, Keaton’s smile a mile wide.

I had never seen the stars before - not anything like that. It was nearly impossible in the city. With my telescope, I could manage a few specks here and there, but nothing like the pictures from my textbooks or the videos on the TV. But that night, in the bedof that truck, Keaton had shown me. He had let things be quiet when I went quiet and let me ramble when I needed to ramble. He pointed out constellations and told me fantastical stories about their namesakes. He didn’t tell me we had to go back until I was ready for it myself, when dawn was breaking along the edge of the sky.

I had a lot of good days in the early years after my rescue, but that night was something different. It was the night I realized there was a difference betweenbelievingyou were free andfeelinglike you were.

I had finallyfeltfree that night.

Has Matt seen the stars since coming here? Since that collar was taken off his neck?

Does Matt feel free yet?

When I look back at him, Matt is showing me that he’s written more beneath his words from earlier:MY FAVORITE .He points to the rock in my hand to make sure I know he means this one.

“It’s a really good favorite,” I tell him. “Reminds me of the night sky. The stars.”

He nods in agreement before putting his notebook in his lap to write again. This one is quick, his eyes darting up to me like he’s afraid he’ll lose my attention. I keep my eyes on him to show him he won’t. His shoulders relax a little, his writing slowing toward the end of whatever he’s written. The pacing shows in his letters when he turns the notebook to me again, the first word a little crooked and wobbly, the last two as neat as his letters usually are:KEEP IT HERE?

I read the words over three times before slowly blinking up at him. “You want to keep this one here? Your favorite?”

He hesitates, looking at me like -fuck, like maybe he thinks I’m judging him?

“You can,” I hurry to say. “Of course you can. I’d be honored for you to keep it here. I’d make sure it was safe. I just - I wantedto make sure I was understanding you correctly. I didn’t want to assume.”

What I really want to ask iswhy?

Why would you not want to keep your favorite with you? Or in your room? Why here? Why with me?

Why do you trust me so much?

He fiddles with his pen for a few moments before carefully writing something. When he shows me the next set of words, he won’t look at me, his eyes trained off to the side:FOR HIDING.

I don’t know what breaks my heart more, the words and how much they mean, or the little wobble in his bottom lip as he waits for me to…what? Deny him? Make fun of him? Reject him?

“Hey. Hey, Matt?” He carefully looks at me, teeth biting down on his bottom lip like maybe he’s trying to keep that wobble under control. I smile at him. It’s small, but it’s genuine. I hope it’s filled with even half the warmth I’m feeling knowing how much he trusts me. Knowing that he feels safe with me.

I lean forward, putting the rock between my thumb and forefinger so I’m showing it to him. “I’ll keep this safe. Just like I will always keep you safe. No matter why you come here, no matter if you’re just coming to hide, or if you want to talk like this, or if you’re doing fucking jumping jacks in the corner. I don’t care where you sit, or what you eat, or if you throw paper balls at my head. Matt, I don’t even care if you steal my licorice. I’ll keep you safe. Always.”

He blinks fast. Hard. Over and over. He carefully places his hand over mine so the rock is sheltered between us. He gives my loose fist a barely-there squeeze with his trembling fingers.

And then he smiles.

It’s all watery, matching his eyes that are about to overflow with tears, but it’s a real smile. A beautiful, warm, real smile.