Corps Security, The Series (2)(133)

He forces me to eat dinner by sitting on the side of the bed and holding the fork of chicken to my mouth until I finally give in. Then he decides that I need to use the bathroom, so he carefully carries me into the bathroom, past the huge bathtub and shower area, and into a smaller room just with the toilet. He is kind enough to leave the room for me to have some privacy, but he still leaves the door open.

I lift up on my ass and pull the hem of my shirt so I’m not sitting on it. The embarrassment of my situation makes me cringe. I know he can hear me relieving myself and I hate being this . . . weak and out of control.

After wiping, I use the wall to stand and then weakly call out, “I’m done.”

He comes in scowling because I’m standing. Then he bends to lift me in his arms.

“Is my weight too much?” I ask, worried about his leg.

I admit that I’ve known about his amputation for years, known it happened long before I came into the picture, but I know nothing else. The outsider would never know. He doesn’t limp. He stands tall and proud. He is always wearing pants; I’ve never seen him with anything other than pants. Even when he goes to the gym I know that he wears long sweats then too.

“You weigh next to nothing, Em. But even if you didn’t, I’m good. I’ve had a long time to get my body to where it is now. Most days, I don’t even notice it.”

“Really?” I ask when he gently places me down on the mattress. I use my good arm and my hips to shift my body until I get comfortable.

He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there and helps me when I need it, placing a pillow back under my leg, rolling the covers back up to my waist, and setting my book back at my side. I let him fuss. It seems to be helping whatever residual issues he’s dealing with from yesterday—the attack.

Thinking that, once he gets me settled, he will answer me, I’m shocked stupid when he walks out of the room.

Goddamn it. Just when I felt like he was letting me in.

I silently stew in my snit and wait for him to come back so I can throw my sass in his face. I hear him moving around farther in the apartment, assuming since it’s going on ten at night that he is locking up and shutting everything off. I hear the alarm beep and watch as the keypad next to his bedroom door lights up a few times. I know he has some top-dollar program wired into his place. The touchscreen alone makes my head hurt.

My frustration builds when he still doesn’t come back. I wait, listening to him thump around in another room. I can hear things being moved around, but as much as I try, I still can’t place the sound.

When I see him walk through the doorway, I’m ready to go all hurt, pissed-off, and sexually frustrated crazy chick on his ass, but when I see him carrying a medium-sized shoebox, I snap my mouth shut and try to calm myself down.

“I imagine, had I walked back in here empty-handed, that you would have been breathing fire in my direction.” Obviously not a question since he doesn’t let me respond before continuing. “I meant what I said the other day, Em. I’m ready. To let you in. And I’m ready to fight to be worthy of you. In order for me to do that, I need to accept that you want me to let you in—regardless of how much it kills me to show you all the monsters that live inside me. Each and every one of them can be found in this godforsaken box, and I think, at this point, that it will help more than hurt for you to see where I’ve been coming from. This is that baggage you wanted to help me carry, Em.”

When he places the box on my lap, I’m almost afraid to open the top. But afraid or not, this is the moment I’ve been praying for. The moment when we take another one of our baby steps . . . together.

His face is soft but slightly worried. My apprehension grows, but I know that, if I don’t take this step, we will never move forward. I also know how hard this is for him, and if I reject this simple act, then he might never open up again.

“Okay, baby,” I whisper and watch as his body visibly feels the impact of those hushed word.

He sits on the corner of the bed, next to my hip, and faces me. The box light is against my lap. I search his eyes a few more beats before I lift the lid. I’m not sure what I anticipated, but a box with random papers and trinkets definitely wasn’t it.

“What—”

“Right. Besides the fact that all of this is worthless junk, to me, it’s a reminder of everything I’ve failed, harmed, or basically touched and fucked up. A physical reminder—something tangible—to remind me what happens when I believe that monsters aren’t real. I can’t tell you how many times I would come home from denying us—this—and dug this box out. This pile of shit is my pain, the baggage of burdens and ruined pasts that I carry deep within me. I could throw it out tomorrow, but, Emmy, this stuff will always be a part of me.”