Page 62 of Roped

“No,” he replies, and it seems like he does it emphatically too. “No, you passed out. Hit the ground pretty hard.”

I remember that now, him diving at me and tackling me to the ground. Him covering me with his body as he shot whoever it was that was trying to… shoot me. As he got shot himself. My eyes jerk over to his shoulder, the right one, but before I can inspect more, he speaks.

“There ain’t no concussion or anythin’, but you got yourself some scrapes and cuts,” he informs, motioning with his chin. “Tried to clean them as much as I could, but you’re gonna be sore for a while.”

I don’t care about cuts and scrapes. I don’t even care about a concussion. My breaths are coming hard and fast, and I’m dizzy again. The room starts to spin and I think I may be on the verge of another panic attack. “What… what happened? Who were they… Who—”

“Peyton,” he snaps, his deep voice lashing, and I draw in a sharp breath.

Panting, I focus on him again. He keeps our gazes connected as he raises his arms, his fingers splayed wide as though he wants me to know he’s harmless. Then, “You need to listen to me, listen to my voice. Fuck who I am, just listen to what I’m sayin’ to you. I need you to take a breath. Do you understand? Just take a deep breath. That’s all you need to do. This is like what happened at the cliff, yeah? You’re scared as fuck and I get that. I do. But you need to do what I’m tellin’ you to do. ’Cause I can’t come close to you. Can’t touch you right now. Can’t put my arms around you. Can’t…” His chest moves with a large breath. “So I need you to listen to me. Just listen. You need to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth, yeah? Do it.”

I stare at him for a few seconds, still and frozen. Unable to comprehend what he’s telling me. The only thing I can focus on is how he sounds. Somehow both rough and tender, cajoling and bossy. And again, concerned. And then as if to prod me further, he decides to follow his own advice and show me. He decides to breathe in, his ribs expanding like the wave and falling when he lets it out. When I still stare at him like I don’t understand, he adds softly, “Please.”

I’ve got a death grip on the sheets, but that one word from him makes me loosen it. It makes me follow his instructions and breathe. It’s probably nothing more than my survival instinct. I’m simply trying to do what helps me make it to the next second.

For the next several seconds, the only sound in the room is of our synchronized breaths. The only thing I see is the green of his eyes, the rise and fall of his massive chest, his arms that are still raised up in surrender, in peace. Like some kind of a joke. Like those hands will never hurt me. Like the man who’s helping me breathe will protect me until his last breath.

Well, if it’s a joke, then how come instead of laughing, I want to cry?

I don’t, though. I stay strong and slowly my body loosens up. My chest warms and the churning in my belly eases. And since he’s been watching me avidly ever since I noticed him in the room—knowing him, maybe even before that—his own breaths come easy. Something I hadn’t realized, that his breaths were strained as well, until I saw his chest moving smoothly.

I want to look at his shoulder again, hunt down his bullet wound, ask him if he’s okay, but I stop myself. I need to focus. I need to freaking focus on myself for once rather than him.

Slowly, he lowers his arms and I command on a whisper, my eyes direct, “Tell me.”

He watches me silently for a few seconds, but I wait him out. And then he declares, “I lied.”

And all the warmth my body had regained simply vanishes. I go back to gripping the sheets tightly and my breaths become choppy.

His jaw pulses for a long moment before he begins. “About that day in the car. It wasn’t only my ma and my daddy that I pulled out of a burnin’ car. I pulled out someone else too. Lynnie.” I flinch at the name, but for once he doesn’t notice. “Lakelyn, but we called her Lynnie. My sister.”

This time, I don’t flinch. I sit there frozen, shocked and afraid, terrified as I wait for him to speak. As I watch his body go taut, his features tightening, his scar standing in stark relief.

“She was thirteen,” he continues, his lips barely moving, the left side of his face seeming to be set in stone. “A couple of years younger than me. Still called her my baby sister, though. She hated that. Reckon that’s why I did it. She was… annoyin’, followed me everywhere I went. Wanted me to teach her how to climb trees, how to ride a horse, how to make those little stones skip on the lake. And Christ, I tried. Swear to God, I tried my best, but she was so fuckin’ bad at it, at all the ‘boy stuff’ like she used to call it. And then, blame me for not teachin’ her right. She…”

He slows down here and swallows several times, clenching his jaw, and my own throat feels too small for my emotions. My whole body feels too small for everything I’m feeling right now.

“She was good at other things, though,” he resumes. “Roses. She was good at ’em, better than our ma, even. Had her own little garden. She loved art, too, colors and stuff. Would spend hours sketchin’, paintin’, noticin’ things no one else did. If our parents were gonna bicker over somethin’, she’d be the first to read their moods and figure that out, would come out to the barn to tell me it was gonna be a big one. Where Daddy may have to get Ma somethin’, usually this blueberry pie from town, to make up for it. She was… she was the best sister I could’ve asked for, and she…”

His body shudders and he fists his hands at his sides, the tendons flexing on his forearms with the force. “She was in the car too. She overheard that we were goin’ into town, wanted to tag along. She always wanted that, loved goin’ into town, meetin’ people, makin’ friends. She was like our ma in that sense. Friendly, open, knew everyone, everyone knew her. She was in the backseat, right behind me. So when my window exploded, she got hit by it, too, the glass. Lynnie was the first one I pulled out, before… everythin’.”

“Is she…” My voice is small and foreign, like that of someone who’s terrified for their life. Even though it’s not my life I’m scared for, it’s hers. His sister’s.

He focuses on me then, his eyes glassy. “She’s alive. She’s just…”

“What?” I whisper.

His chest moves with a breath again and he widens his stance. “She lost her eyes in the accident. She… she can’t see. Not anymore. The doctors, they tried, but…” He shakes his head, his Adam’s apple jerking up and down. “They couldn’t do nothin’. She won’t be able to see ever again, my Lynnie.”

Like last night, I only realize I’m crying when I open my mouth to take in a broken breath. My tears are thick and silent, drenching my cheeks, dripping down my chin and throat. My tears are useless, but they’re all I have right now.

He watches them flow as he tells me, “She won’t be able to see her roses grow again. Won’t be able to paint or sketch, look at colors, notice all the things only she can. And she was okay with that. She was fine. Told me she’d find a way. A way to rebuild, somehow be able to still see again, in some way.”

He clenches his jaw before continuing in an intense voice, “I wasn’t, though; wasn’t happy about that. That she’d found a way to make peace with everythin’. I fuckin’ hated her for it. I hated her for bein’ okay with everythin’. I was angry at her. I was angry at everyone, every fuckin’ person that said things would be okay. Doctors, nurses, fuckin’ speech therapists. I was angry at Hank Turner. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to burn him and his ranch, his fuckin’ family to the ground, take everythin’ from him. He did it for the land, didn’t he. I wanted to burn his land to the ground. Most of all, though, I was angry at myself, for not being able to save ’em. Not being able to save my little sister. I was fifteen; I was almost a man. I should’ve been able to do it. I should’ve been… My parents lost their lives. Lynnie lost her eyes, and I was still alive. I was an ugly motherfucker who couldn’t talk but I was alive, wasn’t I? I could see. I could feel. I could breathe. They couldn’t.

“Lynnie tried. She tried to make me… feel better. Said we should focus on what we had and not what we lost. We still had each other, but Jesus, every time she said that it only made me realize what we didn’t have. We didn’t have our ma, our daddy. She didn’t have her eyes. Every time I looked at her, it was a reminder I’d failed. Every time I saw her struggle to reach for things, try to teach herself how to see again, I’d be so fuckin’ angry. You’re right when you said I was angry. I am angry. I’m angry at everythin’. I’m angry all the time, and…

“Anyhow, I wanted her to go away. Every day, I’d hope and pray and fuckin’ wish she’d just disappear. Didn’t want her pretendin’ everythin’ was okay, that she trusted me still to take care of her. Didn’t want to see her suffer. Never said a word about it, though; couldn’t even if I wanted to, but she knew. She always knew. So she said she’d leave. She’d go away, and Christ…”