Out of the Blackness (16 page)

“But I’m very good. I’d probably be the only one left with clothes on.” He thinks for a minute. “I’d bet Avery would be the first one naked.”

“What?” I yelp, the very thought of being naked starting the anxiety rising in a rush.

“Honey, you have a very expressive face. You’d be horrible at poker.”

I flush uncontrollably at the off-handed endearment. I’m sure it means nothing, just Noah being Noah, but it does nothing to stem the rising tide of anxiety. I push up from the chair. “I-I-I’ll be—” I gesture down the hall towards my bedroom and move that direction before I completely lose the ability to speak.

As I turn I see the look of alarm on Noah's face. I can’t stop to explain. I know I must look stupid running off down the hall to my bedroom over nothing, but this whole day has been one long test of my nerves. I’ve done really well, I think, but now I need a few minutes alone to rest and recharge, especially if Noah's going to be here for the rest of the evening.

I close the door behind me and lean back against it, careful not to mess the poster of Rogue that covers the full-length mirror there. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It’s shaky and I laugh at myself a little.
Noah
, I think.
It’s all about Noah
. From telling him a few weeks ago that I couldn’t be his friend we’ve sure gone a long way in the opposite direction. How he’s sitting just a few feet away, in my house, spending Christmas with me and Sam and Kira. And now with all these revelations floating around in my head, I’m desperately close to forgetting who and what I am. I need a reality check.

I sigh and push away from the door, already dreading what I’m about to do, but knowing I have no choice. I move to the dresser and, concentrating on looking only at what my hands are doing, I carefully lift away the heavy black shroud covering the mirror. I fold it neatly and put it down on the dresser top, staring at its blackness intently, bracing myself for what’s to come.

With fumbling fingers, I pull my Henley over my head from the neckline. I repeat the neat folding and gently place the blue atop the black.
Fitting, that
, I think. Now if only there were some purple and green and yellow to go along with it, I’d have the entire rainbow of bruise colors there to look at.

Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply and face the mirror. I sweep my long bangs from my face with a trembling hand. Finally, I force my eyes open to take in the horror that is my bare-chested reflection. As usual, the sight brings a sharp pain to my eyes as they’re flooded with tears. Savagely blinking them away, I force myself to take a long hard look.

I mentally check off each one of my catalogue of reminders as I take them in. Yes, there is the destroyed right eye socket, the one that’s been broken so many times it’s no longer the usual shape. It’s the reason I grow my hair long and make it hang down over my face. It’s not pretty, but then it shouldn’t be. I take in the way that eyebrow is interrupted three times by scars so that the four pieces of the brow no longer line up properly. My long, narrow nose is crooked and off center from my mouth from three—or was it four?—breaks. Yes, four. Twice from Carl, twice from Tommy.

I thrust out my right arm, fleshy side up and have no trouble finding the three oval scars from where Junior and Darrell attacked me with my mother’s curling iron. The smell of burning flesh stings my crooked nostrils as fresh in my mind as it was that day, the day after I’d had the cast removed.

There are similar scars on my left arm, also from my supposed step-brothers, but those were made by their cleats as they stomped me into the wet grass of the back yard.

I look at my chest now and see the jagged six-inch seam where my young flesh had caught on an exposed nail when they threw me in the doghouse that last time. Tracing the ugly red and white length with a trembling finger, I whimper, much like the dog they always claimed I was. I remember the horror of dealing with the oozing infection that came with it, on my own, of course, because no one else cared enough to help.

I take in other, smaller marks across my torso, their stories mostly blending together in the misery that was my torturous childhood.

This is who you are, Avery
, I remind myself.
You can change your name and your location, but these will never change. Whatever fantasies you’re entertaining about Noah Yates in the back of your twisted little brain, remember this is you, the failed abortion, the human punching bag, the kid no one wants. Tucker or Avery, it doesn’t matter. This is all you’re worth.

And finally, I let the tears flow, the truth of those words a pain far worse than any of the physical assaults that have left such vivid reminders on my body.

***

A light tap on the bedroom door rouses me from a fitful slumber. I force my gritty, aching eyes open with a groan. I can’t believe I actually cried myself to sleep. And with Noah Yates in the next room. Well, if he had questions before about what kind of emotional wreck I am, he should have all the answers by now.

“Aves?” The tap sounds again and I squawk a “yeah” past my parched throat.

The door opens slowly and Sam pokes his head around it, a look of concern adorning his wonderful face. I feel awful. Somehow it always hurts Sam when I have these meltdown moments. I know he sees something good in me, although I have no idea how or why, so these times when I check back in with the truth of who I am upset him.

He comes fully into the room and closes the door behind him. “Are you okay?” he asks as he crosses the room to sit beside me on the bed.

I shrug and take in a shuddering breath. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. How long was I out?”

Sam frowns and reaches out to brush away the salt tracks on my cheeks. “I’m more worried about this. Why were you crying?”

I look away, causing Sam’s hand to fall away, and then close my eyes against the returning pain. “I can’t be something I’m not,” I whisper.

“Who wants you to be anything but you?”

“You do. You
all
do.” I look back at him, begging him to understand. “I know who I am, Sam, what I am. You all pretend I’m just like you, but I’m not.”

“Of course you’re not like me, buddy. Everyone is unique because we all have different experiences and you’ve had some truly hellacious ones. But I’ll tell you this: what those people told you when you were a kid are nothing but poisonous lies.” He stops and brings my face around with a gentle touch. “Look at me, please.”

It takes great effort and quite a while, but my suddenly wet again gaze finally meets his.

“Avery, you are a wonderful, worthwhile human being. You’ve been my best friend since I was eleven years old. There’s no one in this world I love more than you, including Kira. It hurts me that you still believe those hateful things your abusers told you because I know they’re absolutely not true. But worse than that, it hurts
you
that you still give them that kind of power over you. I’ve never told you this before, but as much as I hate your mother for what she put you through, I am so thankful to her for dropping you at that fire station. If she hadn’t, we never would have met. And I know that without you my life wouldn’t be one-tenth as good as it is.” Sam draws a finger down my still salt-streaked cheek. “You have so much love bottled up in that little body, Aves. It’s just bursting to get out. And I’m eternally grateful that those bastards weren’t able to kill that part of you. But, buddy, you have to learn to accept love, too—from someone other than me. You
are
worthy, I promise you.”

My tears spill over again and Sam gathers me in a hug as the sobs take over. “You’ve had a really tough road,” he says into my hair. “Harder than you deserve, for sure. It’s your goodness they were so afraid of, that they tried to beat out of you. But guess what? They lost and you won. You’re still good—so much better than anyone else I know. So please, little brother, please stop letting those voices in your head tell you you’re less than, that you are not worthy. Because if you aren’t worthy, than the rest of us damn sure aren’t, okay?”

I feel Sam’s face pressing into my hair and hug him tighter. I want so badly to believe what he says. I know he believes it without a shadow of a doubt, but it’s so hard to overcome so many years of programming, especially with all the physical reinforcement. Carl and Mom and Tommy and the boys not only believed what they said about me, they actually drilled it into my flesh with lasting reminders, forcing me to believe them too. I can’t promise Sam what he wants, but I can try to learn to forget. I want to be worthy of someone’s love and I know Sam believes I am, which is why he cares for me so unconditionally. We’ve been down some of the same roads. He knows everything about me. Our shared history is a powerful bond. I want to be worthy, but I know I’m not, period. Then again, Sam cares for me, so maybe I am. But if my own mother, the one person in the world who is virtually required by biology and the law to love me, chose Carl over me, then how can I possibly believe someone would or could care for me of his own free will? And that’s what it all comes down to—if she couldn’t, even with the supposed “maternal bond” between us, then there’s no possible way anyone else could.

It takes a while, but eventually my tears dry up again. Sam extricates himself from our hug and hands me a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand. When we can both breathe again, he smiles at me. “I know you probably don’t believe everything I just told you, Avery, but I swear on my life it’s all true. You’re my best friend and the best little brother an orphan could hope for.” I can’t help but laugh a little at the absurdity of the comment and Sam smiles back at me, clearly pleased he’s gotten me to laugh. “Okay, are you ready to get cleaned up and have some dinner?”

Reluctantly I nod. I feel better than I did before my reality check, and now that I’m grounded in reality again—despite Sam’s pep talk—I’m ready to face Noah again.

“Good.” Sam pats my denim-covered thigh twice before standing up. “Go wash your face, brush your teeth and find a shirt. Dinner will be ready by the time you’re done.” He winks and heads for the door. “Don’t take too long. Your man’s out there waiting for his dessert.”

“He’s not my man,” I argue immediately.

Sam smiles back at me from the doorway. “Yeah, he is. You just have to claim him.”

When I come out of the bathroom, I notice that the shroud once again covers the mirror. I touch it lightly on the way by and send Sam a silent thanks.

***

I emerge into the living room after my ablutions and the first place my gaze goes is to Noah. He sits in the chair I vacated earlier, one that allows a view down the hall. It feels like a protective move and I offer him a wan smile. He smiles back but I see the worry written on his face. A magic marker would be subtler.

“Sorry about disappearing like that,” I say to the room in general.

Kira gets up from the couch and presses a kiss to my forehead. “It’s okay, kiddo. We understand.”

I smile my thanks and turn my attention back to Noah. Kira moves into the kitchen to help Sam, affording our guest and me at least the illusion of privacy. I move to sit on the arm of the couch nearest him. I take in a deep breath, preparing to try to explain, but Noah's soft, gentle voice derails my train of thought.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks. “Was it the strip poker comment? Because if it was, Aves, I’m really sorry. I thought it would be obvious I was joking.”

“No, it wasn't that. It wasn't you at all, really.” I expect to see some relief cross his beautiful face, but instead the concern only grows. “Sometimes….” I take a breath and try again. I’m not used to explaining my meltdowns, so it’s a challenge to do it without revealing too much. “Holidays are harder for me than other days, Noah. And you’ve seen how well I cope with those.” I shrug. “I can’t really explain it aside from saying that I have some issues.” I try a smile but it trembles at the tips. “But you should have figured that out by now.”

Noah nods. “We all have issues, Aves. Maybe not as big as yours, but they’re there. The important thing is that we work on them, chisel away at them until we realize they’re not the insurmountable mountains they appear to be, but just a pile of rocks we can move around and get over.”

In spite of myself I smile at him. “Does your mother know you’re a philosophy major?”

He grins and winks. “Psychology, actually, but yes, she does.”

I file that information away for future use and point at him. “No diagnoses over dinner.”

This time he laughs and the lightened expression on his face eases something within me. No matter how miserable my own life has to be, there’s no way I want to be the cause of his.

***

Nervously, I drag the Orange Fluff container from the fridge and set it in front of Noah. When I pull back the lid he looks at it like it’s radioactive.

“It’s orange, Avery.”

“Yep.” I stare at the Jell-O, suddenly afraid this was a horrible idea.

“I thought you said it was tapioca.”

“It is tapioca. Look, you can see the little frogs’ eyes.”

“Gross, Avery!” That from Kira.

“Frogs’ eyes?”

I grin. “That’s what my grandmother called ‘em.”

“And you ate it?” Kira again.

“Of course!” Sam offers excitedly. “Dude, frogs are cool! Especially to little boys.”

Kira shudders and points to Sam’s crotch. “You’re only allowed to produce girls, do you hear me?”

“Hey!” Sam protests, covering himself protectively. Noah and I dissolve into fits of laughter.

When he recovers, Noah picks up his spoon and gamely loads it with his dessert. He shakes his head once. “For little boys everywhere!” he says before shoving the spoon in his mouth.

I watch with a growing grin as the flavors burst forth on his tongue. Cool whip, mandarin orange, vanilla pudding, tapioca pudding. Noah closes his eyes and moans so erotically I swear half the gay men in town stand at attention, me included. He chews the orange, swallows and lets out a lusty, “Oh my god.”

Sam and Kira dive for their spoons but Noah is quicker. Before they can get their greedy hands on the bowl, Noah snatches it up, cradling it like a football, his spoon-laden hand out like a blocker. “Mine!” he snarls and I can’t help it. I collapse to the chair in giggles, picturing him sitting alone in the corner of the kitchen, cradling his bowl, snarling and snapping at anyone who steps foot in the room.