her living out of a suitcase while there was a serviceable closet calling her name, plus all the space for her on the other side of the apartment, in my room. One of these days we'd deal with her phone and whomever it was she intended to avoid. And someday soon, we'd make this far less temporary.
Tonight, however, we'd sleep.
I stripped down to my boxer briefs and deposited my clothes on a chair in the corner before starting in on the blankets and sheets. The tricky part was peeling off Zelda's clothes without waking her. A girl who preferred sleeping in the buff would never survive a night confined to a slim-fitting skirt and a noose-neck shirt.
Against all odds, I removed her skirt without incident. It was the least Zelda article of clothing in the world and I hated it with a fiery passion though I hung it in the closet with care. The top proved more difficult. As I inched it up her torso, she came around with several bleary-eyed blinks.
"Help me get this off you, Zelda," I whispered.
"Oh shit," she rasped, her eyes drooping shut. "I didn't mean to fall asleep." I lifted her arms and drew the shirt over her head. Once it was free, I pitched it toward the closet. I'd send it out with my dry cleaning in the morning. "I just wanted to put my head down for a minute. I had things to do."
I ran my thumb over her cheek. It was flushed from where it had laid against her arm. There was more of her to take in—the way those black cotton panties stretched over the curve of her ass, the thin tank top rucked up past her belly button, the purple bra straps sliding down her shoulders—but this, her cheek, her lips, this was enough to send me on another dip and rise of the roller coaster. "I know, love. I know."
As much as I wanted to scoop her up and settle her under the blankets, I couldn't do that. I might've ditched the sling but my shoulder still hurt like hell and the last thing I wanted was to fuck that situation up any further.
"Come on now," I crooned, sliding my good arm under her arms. "Rest your head on the pillows for me. There you go, there we are. Good girl."
Zelda murmured and nodded like a sleepwalker as she flopped down. I circled the bed, climbing in on the opposite side and drawing the blankets up around us. Everything about this was foreign—the mattress, the pillows, the light cutting in from the window—yet all the restlessness inside me fizzled when Zelda nestled her back against my chest and tucked herself into my notches and grooves.
I was almost asleep when she bolted up, murmured "Fuck this" and whipped her bra off through her tank top's arm.
When she reclaimed her spot beside me, I smoothed her hair from her face. "Better?"
"Much," she replied.
As usual, she was right.
17
Zelda
One more thing to warn you about was my stupidly tolerant nature. It coordinated nicely with my occasional obliviousness, like a dress that always looked just right with an old jean jacket.
I had a storied history of accepting the worst behaviors from others and keeping myself in harmful situations past the point of reason. Part of the trouble was I couldn't help but accept everyone as they came. I believed everyone was doing their best with their circumstances. Believed it past the point of knowing better. Believed it past the point of self-injury. That was stupidly tolerant for you. It wasn't until someone else showed me the toxic sludge I was choking down that I was able to see the poison I'd chosen for myself this time around.
No, I couldn't have helped the circumstances I was born into but I did the best anyone could've expected from a child and I made it through. Though it hadn't been until trading small teenage tragedies with my camp counselor confidant Gunnar DeWitt when I was nineteen that I'd opened my eyes to the reality that my family life was marked by abuse and neglect.
I could remember her reaction as clear as if it'd happened yesterday. I remembered every minute of it. There was no mistaking the face people made when introduced to homemade horrors. It was one of shock and distress but it was also pity. Always pity. The worst part of pity wasn't feeling powerless or small. It was the shame that stole the oxygen from