A Girl Like Me

by Ginger Scott

  “I’m not going to talk bullshit with you,” my dad says, coughing through his laugh. I can tell he’s tired. “And it wasn’t all Rebecca. Bills have been piling up for a while.”

  I take that in, that word—while. I wonder how far in the hole we were before the accident buried us.

  “They think the people you owe…that they did this? My car?”

  Wes pulls back and looks in my eyes, but his mouth remains closed. He’s listening.

  “Most likely,” he says.

  “And the burn on your arm…”

  My dad sighs again.

  “Why would you get in with someone so dangerous? You could have asked your parents,” I say, and a guttural laugh bursts from my father. “Fine, okay, maybe not, but…Grace? Why not Grace?”

  “Joss, Grace and I aren’t close, and while she’s a good woman, I’m pretty sure she would think I made my own problems,” he says.

  My throat starts to close with what I have to say next.

  “I called her.”

  My dad is quiet.

  “I didn’t know what else to do, and the cops took you. I was afraid it was because…”

  I shudder, stopping my words too late. My dad doesn’t respond right away, and I hear activity in the background—phones ringing, doors buzzing open and shut. It sounds like he’s in an administrative area, which means he really is just talking to officers. This isn’t his one phone call.

  “You thought it looked like I tried to run my daughter over twice.”

  I hear him sniff in a short breath. Hearing him say it out loud is sobering. It’s what so many people saw when I was a kid—my dad tried to kill me with his car. Then he abandoned me to alcohol. People would think it happened again except the only people who know about my smashed car are my father and Wes. At least until some neighbor sees the car and the tow truck that’s going to have to haul it away, and rumors start.

  “I was afraid they would accuse you,” I admit. “I mean your car getting messed up tonight is a crazy coincidence, and the whiskey…”

  “It was old,” my dad cuts in. A quiet pause lasts several seconds before he continues. “Every day I think about throwing it away, but it’s like my crutch or safety net. Knowing it’s there, even though it tempts me, it also makes me feel like I have options.”

  “That isn’t your option anymore.” My tone is stern, the child scolding the parent.

  My dad doesn’t respond, and after a few seconds I know he’s done talking about his recovery.

  “So you aren’t a suspect. When can you come home?” I ask.

  “Soon,” my dad says. “They had some other questions.”

  I want to know what those questions were—if my dad was so drunk when I was nine that he really did almost kill me in a fit of rage. I want to know just how close I came to dying.

  “Did you answer them?”

  My question isn’t fair, and I don’t mean it to sound as hard as it does.

  “I’m sorry…” I begin to retract.

  “Don’t be. I did. They had the breathalyzer, and I was able to get the time stamp from work on video. And the questions from the time with Kevin, when I…”

  “I know what time you mean,” I cut in, not wanting to hear him say when he almost hit me again.

  “Right, well…anyhow…those questions were the same as they always were,” he says, and I wait thinking about how many times I’ve tried to change that day in my head. I come home a little later, we don’t have the races, and my dad has to work, so he never sees my mom…or Kevin…or any of it.

  “Except for one thing,” he says, snapping me out of my own head.

  “Yeah,” I breathe, my forehead crinkling.

  “They asked me why Wes was there.”

  I laugh out once. “Were they trying to tell on your little girl having a boy at the house when you weren’t home? Because I called him and that’s why he came,” I say.

  “No, no…not that,” my dad says. My laughter fades back to silence. The unraveling is beginning now. “And not tonight, Joss.”

  He means then—years ago. They asked him why Wes was there both times, which means my dad now knows that Wes is the boy he owes my life to, the one who kept him from becoming a monster.

  “Oh,” I say in a hushed tone. My eyes are locked on Wes’s, and I can tell he knows what we’re talking about without hearing the words. There’s a shift in his expression, a slight tilt in his eyes.

  My dad knows I won’t say more about it now, and he doesn’t wait for me to fill in the gaps.

  “What time is Grace coming?” he asks.

  “Noon. She’s going to take a taxi to the house, and I’ll run home from school to let her in,” I say.

  “Have Wes drive you…if he can,” my dad says.

  I nod slowly, then speak. “I’m sure he can,” I say.

  “All right, then. I better go. They need me to get some information to their detectives, meet with a few other people. I phoned in for a sub, so I won’t be at school. And I guess…” he pauses, letting out a fast and heavy breath. “I guess let Grace know I’ll be late. And make up my bed for her. She’ll be more comfortable in there. I’ll take the couch.”

  My eyes roam to the right, to the blanket Wes barely used, and I smile.

  “Okay,” I say.

  I hang up with my father and sit still, my legs touching Wes’s, my eyes now looking a little below his.

  “He’s okay,” I simplify.

  I blink a few times and leave my focus on Wes’s neck and chest. He ducks his head after several seconds, catching my gaze and bringing my head up with widened eyes.

  “Really, he’s okay,” I say. “He’s not in trouble. I mean…other than owing some lunatic eighty grand,” I laugh out.

  Wes’s chest fills and he leans back a little.

  “Yeah, maybe not…okay.” I give Wes a wry smile. “But he isn’t arrested. They know he didn’t crash into my car.”

  “Good,” Wes says, his shoulders falling a little as he relaxes slightly. I look down at his chest again.

  “They asked about you,” I say, expecting him to tense up again. He doesn’t.

  “I thought they might,” he says.

  I catch his eyes again, and I hold onto them for a breath or two before standing and moving out from the small space trapped in front of him.

  “I should shower. We have school, and you probably need to get home so your family doesn’t freak out,” I say.

  “I told Levi I was here,” he says, holding up his phone. “He texted me after I left. When you share a room with two other dudes, you sorta notice when one kicks around a pile of clothes on the floor looking for a shirt so he can race to his girlfriend’s house.”

  My lip rises on one side. Girlfriend. I don’t tease. In fact, I don’t draw attention to it at all. I don’t debate it, or rehash that we still have a long way to go since he left and came back. I push down thoughts on how I’m filled with trust issues because of my father, and how absolutely fucked-up crazy our lives are with Wes thinking he’s been put here to save me. I don’t talk about how I waver from believing in that damn book of predictions and thinking the whole thing is a load of crap. Instead, I just let the moment wrap itself around my heart, because girlfriend.

  “All right, well…I’ll be a few minutes, and at least we can get you into some fresh clothes,” I say, taking a step or two down the hall before pausing, tapping my fingers along the wall and looking over my shoulder at him. His eyes are waiting for me, and his lip is raised on the same side as mine. I let the energy of that one look settle into my chest and warm me from inside, then I head the rest of the way down the hall and shut the bathroom door behind me.

  My eyes take in my reflection as soon as I rest my back against the door. I haven’t looked at myself in a long time, and the last time I did—the last time I really looked—I didn’t think the girl looking back at me was good enough. This girl, though—she’s strong. My mouth is still curved in the same smil
e I gave Wes, and it grows as I step closer to the sink, setting my clothes and phone on the counter.

  My blonde hair has gotten lighter from the summer sun. It used to be dark and lifeless, hidden by late nights and a bedroom where I never once let the light in. It’s longer, too, the ends twisting down to my elbows. I lean in, studying the grayish blue of my eyes—which, while they’ve never been bright and vivid like Wes’s—are unique on their own. The color looks like a storm.

  I no longer hate the freckles that sprinkle from one cheek to the other, and the pinkish tone of my cheeks, kissed by sun like my hair. My shoulders are bronze, and I tug my shirt sideways at the neckline and run my opposite finger along the light line drawn over it where the strap of my tank top has become a permanent pattern on my body.

  My shoulders are strong, but still feminine. I lift my shirt up over my head, dropping it to the floor, and I run my hands down the front of my body, over my breasts to my stomach and hips, hooking my fingers in my shorts and underwear, dropping them to the floor as well. I look back up and take all of me in, at least to my waist where I can’t see below in the mirror.

  Somehow, over the last six months, I’ve become something more than just a girl. I look at this person in the mirror, and she’s a woman. My leg is not perfect. My thighs are thick from running and working the muscles hard as I train. My nails are short from playing ball and chewing at them, and my skin is dotted with light bruising from workouts and missed grounders on the field. But my imperfections make me smile more.

  I glance down where my phone lays by the sink, and I pull it into my palms and open a message to Wes. Without hesitation, I type what I feel right now. No second-guessing and no doubts or worries. Just this one thing that, while I’ve said it, I don’t think it’s been heard by him enough.

  I love you, you know.

  It’s exactly as he said it to me minutes ago, and I mean it with the same depth and emotion as he did. I set my phone down and watch the screen with a pounding heart, waiting for him to type something back, but instead, the bathroom door pushes open slowly.

  I don’t turn at first, instead just watching through the mirror. Wes’s eyes meet mine in the reflection, and I swallow slowly, my pulse gaining speed and my lips tingling.

  Wes steps fully inside, shutting the door behind him, but he doesn’t look down at my body—he holds his gaze right on mine in the mirror. As he steps closer, his hands move to my elbows, then slide down my arms to where my hands are resting on the counter, his fingers threading with mine. Almost as if a reflex, my fingers open and invite him in, squeezing tight at his touch.

  His head turns slightly and his eyes fall shut as his mouth moves close to my neck, stopping a breath away from actually touching my skin, and my body drowns in shivers when he opens his mouth and his bottom lip grazes me. I tilt my head to the side, giving him more access, and his eyes open to meet mine again in the reflection.

  Lips curve before opening slightly to kiss along my neck, and his hands follow the lead of his mouth, running up my arms and over my shoulders, into my hair that he pulls up and grabs fistfuls of as his mouth tastes more of me, traveling from my neck to my shoulder.

  “I know,” he whispers, and I turn into him, his eyes taking me in now, seeing all of me and roaming slowly up my body until they meet mine again. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and his mouth hovers open without words and his breathing grows ragged. I can read his thoughts behind his eyes, and I can practically taste his hesitation. My boy is bashful. He’s also beautiful, the way he looks into me, seeing my entire story—the broken parts and the pieces he’s managed to repair.

  “I know that you love me,” he continues, his hands moving to either side of my face, cupping my cheeks as he leans in and presses his mouth to mine. I open to him, and I taste him, moaning when his tongue touches mine, his lips sucking my upper one as his body takes a slow stride back, ultimately leaving me breathless.

  His eyes don’t move from mine except for the brief second when he lifts his T-shirt over his head and adds to the discarded clothing on the floor. I lean into the counter behind me and watch as he steps toward the shower and turns the water on, holding his hand in the stream to test its warmth. Turning to me, he unbuttons his jeans and slides them, along with his boxers, down his body, kicking them away before holding a hand out to me, his palm up.

  I know I should be nervous, but I’m not. I should be afraid of him seeing me, but I’ve never wanted to be seen more. And Wes isn’t afraid either. He isn’t waiting for me to reject him, and he isn’t doubting the words I said, just as I don’t doubt his. This is that rare moment where a girl and a boy are ready for something, in a way it was probably always supposed to be. Those other times, those other boys—those were all regrets now, because this…this is special.

  “I have to take off my leg,” I say, stepping toward him and taking his hand.

  “Okay,” he says, lip raised enough to form a dimple on his left cheek.

  Of everything that I’ve prepared for in my physical therapy, this was the one thing that I tucked to the depths of my mind. There isn’t therapy for this—a course or a manual that helps me navigate being intimate with someone else, someone…whole.

  When Wes was missing, I didn’t have to think about how my body looked to someone else. I wasn’t interested in a near-future, or a distant one for that matter, that included a scenario like the one I’m in right now.

  I feel vulnerable. I hate feeling vulnerable. And I can feel the sureness leaving my body in waves with every breath I wait through to do it.

  I step forward and balance myself, holding onto the long bar my father had installed near the shower entrance. It’s a move I make every morning and night all on my own, one I’ve gotten so good at that I’m able to perform it in seconds. My hands are shaking now, though. Wes notices, and his hand quickly slides along my arm, under my elbow, to support me.

  Swallowing, I don’t let myself look at him, instead imagining that he isn’t looking at me with pity, or wanting to step in and make this small task easier for me. Perhaps he isn’t, but it’s a risk I can’t take. Nothing is easy for me. It’s that resistance I get with everything I do, though, that I thrive off. I need it to survive, and if I ever want to feel what it’s like to love someone, wholly and completely, I need to overcome this push, too.

  I detach the socket and twist my knee, feeling the pressure release as I set my leg to the side and roll down the silicon sleeve and layers of padding. I place them on the counter near the sink and take a deep breath. The air feels heavy in my chest, and my pulse radiates through my core.

  “This is what I am,” I say, my eyes blinking slowly as I force myself to look him in the eyes. His gaze is waiting for me, along with the sweet smile that is exactly as I left it. My lips pinch in at the corners, quivering with the want to smile and cry all at once.

  “No,” Wes says, moving into me until our foreheads touch. “This is only a fraction of what you are.”

  His hand sweeps behind my body to the small of my back. My balance is lost in a flash of a second as his other hand runs down the side of my body and lifts me under my good leg. My body held close to his chest, our heads still touching, his eyelashes tickle against mine as he steps with me in his arms into the steam from the shower.

  Wes lowers me slowly, holding me tight until my foot finds it’s balance between both of his. My arms drape over his shoulders, and my hands feel the warm stream of water that cascades down his neck.

  I have never done something like this. The other times, with other boys, it was always a dare I gave myself—an act of rebellion. Those times when I showed my skin, bared my breasts, and discarded clothes were all in darkened rooms swirling with the scent of alcohol or the back of pickup trucks parked just behind the drive-in. Bonfires, basement parties, and the abandoned shed where the football team’s equipment is stored—I was that kind of girl. But not anymore, and never again. Wes has taught me what tender means, what love is, and
what self-respect deserves.

  I tighten my hold around his neck and pull myself to him, my lips finding his waiting. His kiss begins softly, taking slow passes along my bottom lip then my top before sucking me in and parting my lips enough that he tastes me completely. We move together under a blanket of water. My hands roam along his arms, around his back, my fingers daring to move to his chest and stomach. I pause with my fingertips just below his waistline, curious, but not wanting to be forward—wanting to be pursued.

  His hands wash down my shoulder blades and trace the curve of my back until he finds my butt, squeezing as he lifts me up into him, holding my thighs and kissing me harder.

  In a breath, my back is against the wall, and Wes’s body is pressed against me with my legs wrapped around him. I’ve forgotten completely about what my body is missing; instead, every inch of me feeling alive and whole as his mouth covers my jaw with kisses. His lips dive into my neck, and I feel the sharpness of his teeth as he grazes my collarbone. Every kiss, every touch, tears away one more layer of worry and doubt that I’ll ever be more than I was. Wes pauses, his head resting on mine again, his eyes looking down at my breasts, silky with beads of water, and I feel his body pulsing with every heavy breath he takes.

  He wants me.

  I need him.

  I am more than I was. This body…it’s sexy.

  “Take me to my bed,” I whisper against his lips. His fingers pulse against my legs where he holds me, and his body feels harder.

  “I’m not leaving,” he says, and I nod against him.

  “I know,” I say.

  “Before, I only stayed away for you. Everything…it’s for you. I came back for you, I was born for you.” His breath hitches and his body shudders and he pulls me tight against him and turns in the shower, leaving the water running.

  He kisses me as he carries me to my room, our bodies dripping water along the carpet. Wes pushes the door open with his elbow and kicks it closed with his foot. My body finds the softness of my blanket, and I push myself up until my head rests on my pillow, not caring that my hair is soaking the sheets. Within a blink, Wes’s body is hovering over me, his weight held up by arms that somehow look stronger than they ever have, even though they’ve saved me from so much—even though they’ve done impossible things.