Page 278 of Faking the Goal

"Even if it's just... just for a little while."

She presses the heels of her palms against her temples, shaking her head as if she can force the memories back into whatever dark corner they'd been hiding in all these years.

"I can't stop seeing him." Her breathing grows ragged. "Every time I close my eyes..." She squeezes them shut for the briefest second before snapping them open again. "...he's there."

Her fingers drag frantically over her forearms, then her shoulders, scratching at her soaked skin until I gently catch her wrists.

"It feels like..." She gags on the words. "Like he's still touching me."

My heart stops.

She lets out another broken sob.

"I know he's not, but I can still feel it." Her whole body curls in on itself. "It's like something's crawling beneath my skin and I can't get it out." She begins shaking harder. "I can't breathe. I can't sleep when all I see is him."

Her eyes find mine again.

They are so desperate.

So unbearably lost.

She has never looked so broken.

And this, I think, is what breaks me.

Because I would do anything—literally anything—to stitch her back together. To build her a new brain if it meant she never had to remember one second of what he did to her. To take the memory into my own skull if it would set her free. I would kneel on cold tile forever if that was all I could do.

She reaches out, fingertips fluttering for a second against my forearm, like she wants to anchor herself but can't quite ask for the contact. I catch her hand, gentle as I can, and bring it to my chest. I cover it with my palm and hold it to the steady thud of my heart, and for just a second her breathing matches mine.

But the panic comes back, sharper, deeper. She's back to tearing at her arms, desperate to rip out whatever is infecting her, and her voice goes high and thin and wild.

"So please..." she begs, tears spilling faster than she can wipe them away. "Please make it stop."

The water is still running, still steaming, but I barely feel it. I reach behind her, twist the knob, and the torrent dies with a groan. The bathroom fills with silence, the kind that rings in your ears.

I kneel in front of her, soaking, and brush the hair off her face. I take her face in both hands, and for a second she tries to look away, like she doesn't deserve this, like she's ashamed to even be seen. But I won't let her look anywhere else. Not tonight. Not when she's this close to vanishing.

"Hey," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "Hey. Look at me."

She's shivering, but she does. She looks, and I see this helpless hope flicker behind her ruined expression.

"If this is what you need," I say. "If this is the only way I can help. Then I'll do it. I'll help you through it. I'll be here with you until it's gone. I promise."

She nods, biting her lip so hard I think it might bleed.

I peel her hands off her arms, massaging the cold from her knuckles, and help her to her feet. She's a mess, and she's beautiful, and she's never looked so lost. Her clothes cling to her in heavy, sodden folds, and there's mascara smeared down her cheeks, and her lips are shaking. But when I meet her eyes, there's something else there now. A need that's bigger than her pain. A need to be connected to anything that makes sense, that makes her feel less broken.

I help her peel off her shirt, slow and careful, not breaking eye contact. She doesn't flinch. She lets me, lets me take the weight of her and the ruin of her, lets me see all of her as she is. I don't look away, not for one second, not even when she's standing there in just her underwear, skin flushed and goose-pimpled and covered in angry red lines from her own nails.

I strip out of my own shirt, my jeans, my boxers—one by one, deliberate, so she can see nothing is being hidden, nothing is being forced. We're two ruined things, standing in a cloud of steam and grief.

She reaches for me first.

Her hands are shaking, but she puts them on either side of my face and yanks me down into a kiss that is all hunger and desperation and the wild, clawing need to be anywhere but here. Our teeth click. She tastes like tears and salt.

This isn't about sex. It's about being alive, being seen, being wanted in a way that nothing else can recreate. It's about burning the old memories out with new ones, and letting the warmth of another person flood out the cold that's lived inside her for so long.

I slide one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back, lifting her from the tub with as much care as I can manage. She feels impossibly fragile against me, her wet skin chilled despite the warmth of the water, and the way she immediately curls into my chest nearly brings me to my knees.