have hurt.’ He pouted. ‘It hurt my feelings anyway.’
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever. If you keep taking the piss out of me, I’ll punch you harder next time …’
He kissed me again before I could say anything more: a mightily effective shutting-up-Grace technique.
‘I’m not taking the piss – trust me. I’ve never seen you look so beautiful. I mean it.’
‘You’re mental. Or is there something wrong with your eyes?’ I waved my hand in front of him, inches from his face. ‘Can you see this? How many fingers am I holding up?’
He grabbed my hand and held it in both of his. ‘You look fresh … and young … and cute … and really … really … hot.’ Each pause was punctuated by a kiss. I melted more. He actually seemed to mean it. And who was I to argue?
‘Young? Not too young, I hope?’
Another kiss. ‘Nah, don’t worry … I think you’re still legal.’
I sank back into the sofa. Nat followed, his lips never leaving mine. I could barely form a coherent thought, such was my blissed-out state. I was vaguely aware that this was going a lot better than I could have ever hoped. This was better than normal – better than anything, in fact.
And somewhere in my mind – my pink and fuzzy soft-focus mind – something clicked: the cuts. The fresh cuts. He could hardly miss them, could he? There were so many, and they looked so bad. Much, much worse than before. He wouldn’t even want to look at me, let alone touch me. I silently cursed my stupidity: this reunion was going to be over before it began.
I don’t know how, but Nat realized that something was up. He pulled away and looked at me intently. ‘Are you OK?’
I paused – I knew that my answer was crucial.
The choice, as I saw it, was a simple one:
Carry on as if nothing was wrong, and hope that he wouldn’t freak out when he saw what I’d done to myself.
OR …
Tell the truth, and probably scare him off for good.
Why do I keep doing this to myself? Will I never learn?
I manoeuvred my way out from underneath Nat and straightened out my T-shirt.
‘What’s the matter, Grace?’ The concern in his eyes almost made me change my mind. Almost.
I covered my face with my hands, before whispering, ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’
‘What is it? You can tell me anything. I don’t want any more secrets between us.’ He leaned forward and put his arm around my shoulders. It felt heavy and comforting, but I didn’t want to be comforted – not yet.
I stood and turned to face him. I watched his face as I started to pull down my tracksuit bottoms. He raised his eyebrows and smiled at first, having obviously misunderstood my actions. And then his smile slipped away, and was replaced with … with what? I couldn’t really tell. It certainly wasn’t the full-on disgust I’d expected. I resisted the urge to pull up my trousers straight away, and tried not to think about the fact that I was wearing an old, greying pair of pants.
‘Say something, Nat. Please say something.’
Nat’s expression was unreadable as he knelt on the carpet in front of me and gently pulled my trackies back up. He reached for my hand, and looked up into my eyes. ‘It’s going to be OK.’
I blinked back tears and crumpled down to meet him on the floor. He put his arms around me once again, and held me as I cried and cried and cried.
Eventually I sniffed and took a deep breath. ‘Not looking so fresh and cute now, am I?’
He laughed and wiped away my tears. ‘Hmm, perhaps not … I still would though.’
‘Liar. But thanks anyway.’ I leaned my head back against his chest.
‘I’m not lying! Do you want me to prove it?’ His hand crept towards the drawstring of my trackie bottoms.
I caught his wrist and held it fast against my stomach. ‘Don’t. How can you even think about having sex with a freak like me? I’m repulsive.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Why not? It’s true.’
‘It’s not, and I don’t want you thinking like that. So you cut yourself sometimes? Big deal. I don’t care.’
‘What?’
‘Look, we all have our ways of dealing with stuff when it gets too much for us. Your way just happens to be more … extreme than most. I hate that you feel you have to do this to yourself, and it makes me sad that you’re going to