Chloe. Chapter 22.
I see the scar on his right shoulder from where he fell off Jack's homemade sled one winter and tumbled roly-poly style right into a rock. It's a thin, shiny white line. I resist the urge to touch it. He's undoing me, again, lying here beside me in a literal bed we made ages ago but have since refused to lie in. How does he do this?
"I guess she knows it, even if you don't," he whispers.
"I do,'"I say, and inside I'm screaming. We're not doing this; we're not. This is dangerous. But he climbed in next to me and now it's the strongest, aching urge to keep him here, to have him holding me again and to never let me go. The guilt surges through me, along with the fear.
"So, she broke up with you?" I manage.
"I guess so," he replies, scanning my cuts with his eyes.
"She really liked you, Noah,"
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm just an asshole."
I realize my hand is still in his hair and I retract it quickly. He grabs it, holds it against him. You're not an asshole I'm thinking, but for some reason I can't say it. It would be like admitting something else; like the fact that he's an asshole to every girl who likes him, but never to me.
And then I'd have to really think about why that is and that's not something I'll ever be comfortable with at all, even though his eyes are like maps and his words are like anchors and his songs are like personal messages and I love all that.