Ghost of You

f o u r t e e n

In the aftermath of my father's surprise visit, I found myself returning to an old comfort to begin to repair the damage. 

I had spent practically twenty-four of the last thirty-six hours in the gym, training. In part it was just a distraction from thinking about my father but at the same time it was some new sort of manic fixation on proving him wrong. His words had hurt but they had also become my motivation. I was so sure I'd be able to change his mind in time if we were good enough, and strong enough. Then again maybe I was just fooling myself. 

There was a sort of never-ending cycle in my mind. First I'd tell myself to ignore him, he didn't know what he was talking about. Then I'd feel miserable hearing his words on a repeated loop in my mind. You're obviously not my daughter. Soon I'd be back at work, believing I could somehow change the mind of a man so stubborn, that a boulder rolling down a hill wouldn't be able to tear his roots from the ground below and knock him over. And just like that, I'd be back to pretending his words didn't matter even though of course they did. 

It was exhausting. 

"I thought I'd find you in here."

I halted my punches, peering over my shoulder even though I already knew who it would be.

"Did you need something?" I asked, flexing my knuckles in my boxing gloves. That's when I noticed the strap on the left glove was broken, the Velcro had come loose on the other side and I'd have to glue it back on later. Not wanting to end my workout, I walked towards the cabinet with spare gloves which also happened to be in the same direction as Steve.

"No I don't." He replied. 

I waited for him to continue but he left his response there, following me towards the cabinet. Always a man of many words huh Steve?

"Alright." I said slowly. "I'll see you around then." 

He didn't move. He just continued to stand there a few feet away from me.

I shrugged off the broken glove, momentarily forgetting what it was covering up. Wincing slightly, I pulled it off the rest of the way. I told myself not to look. I knew seeing the mark my father had left there would only hurt more than the mark actually did. And yet my eyes fell there anyway, like a moth to a flame. Apparently, Steve's had too because he made some kind of grumbled noise at the back of his throat before taking two steps closer to me, reaching his hand out and grabbing the wrist. His eyes were focused on the mess of blue, brown, and purple on my skin. 

I felt an immediate rush of deja vu as I watched him assessing my injury. I wondered if he was going to repeat the same action as last time. Was he going to place kisses, numbingly up the length of my arm? Was he going to back me up until I was once again trapped against the wall? It did seem to be a favorite pastime of his these days. But he didn't do any of those things. Instead he looked at my wrist, and then fixed his gaze on mine.

"Do you want to talk about it?" 

The words were muttered so quietly and so softly I barely had heard them. If I didn't know better I would have guessed he thought asking me those words in anything other than a whisper might break me down again. 

As thankful as I was for him sending my father away part of me still hated that he had witnessed it all. I hated that he had seen me cry. I hated that he had been present for something so personal and private. Most of all I hated that in that moment his comfort helped to bare the weight of my father's words. For the first time since I had met Steve, he had given me a reason not to hate him. And it was probably stupid but in a way, I think I hated him a little more for that. At least I tried to and I think maybe I even needed too. Because the minute we stopped hating each other was the minute all hell was going to break loose.