My information jars him.
It makes his chest undulate with a sharp breath. It even makes him shift on his feet as he bites out, “She talked.”
And since I’m not letting him get away anymore, I put my hands on him.
I place my hands on his forearms and clutch them. “And I know that you were right.”
“Right about what?”
“That I’m just a teenager.”
His brows snap together. “What?”
And I can’t hold it in anymore.
All these things that I’ve been thinking ever since my meeting with Helen before the break. All the things that I’ve been feeling while dancing out there.
All the pain and heartbreak.
His heartbreak.
“Callie would talk about you, you know. All the time,” I begin, looking up at his beautiful face, strong shoulders, my fingers digging into his warm flesh. “She’d tell me all the things that you did for her, for your brothers, for your mom before she died. All the sacrifices you made. And I thought… I thought I understood that. I thought I understood what you gave up and I admired you for it. God, so much.
“And then I finally saw you. And I found out who you were. That you’re not only the man who changed my life but also the brother my best friend kept talking about and I was… amazed. I was so freaking amazed, Conrad” – his body tightens up even more when I say his name, and in response I move closer until the toes of our boots are knocking together – “and I still thought I understood everything. But I was wrong. I didn’t. Not until I saw you with her, under that tree. You looked so… still, so lifeless. That’s exactly how you looked back then, at the wedding. So no, I never understood. I never understood anything until then. Until Helen told me everything and I realized that I’ve always admired you for your goodness. I’ve always admired you for your ability to do the right thing. But I never…”
I let my sentence hang because something is poking me in my throat.
Something prickly and thorny.
Something painful that won’t let me speak.
That won’t let me go on because all I want to do right now is break down.
All I want to do right now is cry.
For him.
For all the things he’s gone through. Alone.
Taking care of his family, his little siblings. His mother. Giving up his ambitions for them.
Giving up the woman he loved — loves.
For not only going through the blow of losing his mother but also a relationship.
I want to cry for all the times he’s chosen others over himself.
“But you never what?” he asks when I don’t go on, his voice as tight as ever.
And I somehow push the lump of emotions down and continue, still looking into his eyes. “But I never understood the cost. Of all your sacrifices. I never grasped the effect that they had on you. I admired how you changed everyone else’s life without realizing that in the process, your life was changing too. I think…” I shake my head, digging and digging my fingers into his forearm. “I think we overestimate the strong people. We think that the strongest of us don’t suffer. Because the strongest of us are always taking on responsibilities that others won’t and doing the right thing when the world doesn’t. But they do suffer. They do feel the pain. They do get lonely. In fact I think the strongest of us need more comfort, more warmth. More softness.”
I squeeze his arms again. “And I think… I was wrong about the thorns too. They’re my favorite thing to draw because I always thought that thorns are there to protect the roses. And that may be true. But I think there’s more to it than that.” I go up on my tiptoes and stare and stare into his eyes, hoping that he will hear me, and he stares back, looking like he may be listening. “I think thorns grow where the roses are because they’re starved for softness. They’re hungry for all the soft, fragile things after living a sharp, prickly life. A thorn needs the softness of a rose. And I think that’s why a rose is so soft in the first place. Because a thorn needs it to be.”
It’s true, isn’t it?
That’s what I’ve been thinking about all through the Christmas break as I missed him, missed St. Mary’s.
I’ve always seen him as such a pillar, with such strong architecture – a monument of his family – that I forgot to take a peek underneath.
I forgot to look under his big brother, hardass coach persona.
I admired him so much that I forgot to understand.
And I so callously, so naively preached to him about doing the right thing with Helen.
God, I’m an idiot.
I’m such a fucking idiot.
“It must be so hard for you to say no to her,” I go on then. “And yet you did. You did say no. Just because you wanted to do the right thing and I was so freakishly stupid to tell you what to do and —”