“If Ty is in your room, I will kick him out,” I say, moving my hands to his face and continuing our kiss once again. Nate carries me all the way to the main road across the street from our dorm building, and then he lets my body slowly slide from his until my feet touch the ground. His grip on my hand is tight, and I can feel my heartbeat in every inch of my body, the thump-thump growing faster and stronger the closer we get to Nate’s room.

Thankfully, there’s no need to kick Ty out when we get there, and Nate pushes the door closed behind us seconds after we enter, locking it before coming back to me. I tug at the long-sleeved hooded T-shirt he was wearing, and he helps me bring it over his head, quick to find my lips again once it’s off. He’s backing me toward his bed, and we’re both working to kick our shoes off, tripping over one another and laughing when our feet get tangled.

Once I feel the back of my legs rest along the edge of his mattress, I sit back, my hands resting on either side of me, waiting for Nate to push me completely on my back. But when he reaches over and presses the switch on his desk lamp, my body drains of every feeling, and panic replaces it.

“Don’t turn the light on,” I say, my voice breaking while I struggle not to completely succumb to the tears I feel just under the surface. “I…I don’t want you to see me.”

Nate

Her voice is f**king heartbreaking, and it stops me cold. She’s the single most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and the thought of touching her like this and not being able to see her—not just her body, but to see her face, her lips, her eyes flutter closed—is torture. But the way she asks, begs me to keep us in the dark, is about something bigger.

“You’re beautiful,” I say, stepping back enough to let my fingers graze along her cheek and chin. She leans into my palm, her head heavy as she closes her eyes.

“No, I’m not,” she says, moving back in my bed until her back is against the wall. She draws her knees into her body and brings her hands to her face next, then begins to cry.

I hate that she thinks this about herself, and I hate that she lost two years of her life to fear and obligation. But she has to understand how beautiful she is. I crawl up next to her and pull her into my lap, locking my arms around her so she has nowhere to go, and she melts into me.

This…this is what I meant when I said “I’ll wait.” I don’t need all of her, not all at once. I am willing to wait for whatever pieces she’s willing to give. And if I have to help her make each piece whole first, then so be it.

I wait. I wait while she slows her breathing down and stops her eyes from watering. I wait while she chews at the edges of her fingernails, her eyes entranced into nothingness while her mind sorts out whatever roadblock is standing in her way. I wait for her to finally look at me, breathe deeply, and tell me her secrets. And I would wait forever. But I don’t have to tonight, because she’s looking at me, trembling, but ready to face her demons.

“My body…” she starts, but pauses, moving from my arms to sit in front of me, facing me. “I live with this constant reminder of what happened. It’s…it’s why I don’t shower when everybody else does. It’s why I wear clothing that covers me just enough. And even when they’re covered…I know they’re there. I can feel them.”

She’s hugging herself again, and I’m starting to understand that this isn’t just something she does when she’s nervous. It’s something she does to remind herself of that day, of Josh—to punish herself when she feels guilty for forgetting.

“Show me,” I say, my voice almost a whisper as I keep my eyes to hers, willing her to trust me, to love me.

“You’ll think I’m ugly,” she says, the tears once again threatening to come.

“Never,” I say.

She leaves her eyes on mine for minutes, and I never break. I won’t break. And I will wait—for as long as it takes. Her squeezing of herself loosens, and eventually her hands find their way to her lap, and then the bottom of her shirt. She lifts and pulls the first layer away, but I keep my stare locked on her eyes. I don’t want her to feel frightened or ashamed, so I won’t look. Not until she tells me to. She’s still wearing a tight black tank top, but once she discards the first shirt on the floor, she begins to pull this one over her head too, her eyes telling me just how terrified she is.

Rowe is the bravest person I know. I still don’t know what it is she’s hiding from me, because I won’t look until she tells me to. But I can see this struggle playing out in her eyes while she talks to me without talking. All I can see from my periphery is the thin, black strap and lace edge of her bra, but I know other than that, her top is completely bare. Her breathing comes in fragments—almost as if she’s drowning. But I don’t stop her. I know if she had to, if she wanted to, she would stop. She’s testing herself, to see if she’s strong enough. And I have to let her see if she is.