in the mirror. “You really are.”
I don’t like it when people say stuff like this, because it always rings like bullshit — I know better.
“Now that I think about it, there was this one guy, just after graduation. He kind of swept me off my feet one night, but he blew me off and never called,” she says and gives me a funny look.
“Any guy that would blow you off is an asshole and doesn’t deserve you,” I say.
“Yeah, so what’s your excuse?’ she asks.
“For what?”
She looks away for a moment. “I mean, you don’t have a girlfriend, why not?”
She starts pulling strips of tape off my fingers and applying the gauze bandages.
“I’ve had lots of girlfriends.”
“I mean a real girlfriend.”
“Oh, one of those. It’s been a low priority for a few years. My life has been what sociologists clinically refer to as a cluster-fuck, I saw a special on PBS about it.”
She grins. “So what’s up with the Cameo? That your Mom’s?”
I hold it up and look at it.
“Yeah.”
She nods and lets it go.
Tonya knows some about my past, but since the other night, I think she has guessed a lot more. She’s pretty intuitive. And she pats me on the head when I need it, but she doesn’t cut me a lot of slack or buy into the melancholy thing. I think that’s why I like her so much. I know she cares about me, would do almost anything for me, but there isn’t any of that ugly pity that most people have. It’s like they take one look at your scars and they think they know everything about you — but the pity changes soon enough and they start treating you like a plague victim, right before the judging starts. I get none of that from Tonya.
“Todd mentioned someone at the bank, what’s her story?” she asks.
“Todd talks too much.”
She just raises her eyebrows, waiting.
“Yeah, it’s been a few weeks or so since I met her, you know flirting and all that, but I asked her out today and she has a boyfriend, so no dice.”
She finishes with the tape and then slides a plastic shower cap over my head and hugs me from behind, laying her cheek against my shoulder. I grab her hands and hug her back and then I see it for the first time. She always wears long sleeved shirts and goofy wrist bands that she’s died black or fingerless gloves or both. I never thought about them before.
But when I grab her arms, I pull one of the wrist bands back and see the scars that she’s been trying to hide.
Motherfuck!
I’m suddenly seething and it takes all my concentration to stay still, just barely controlling my anger. What the fuck happened to push her this far? How could this have happened? Who was asleep at the fucking switch to not see that she desperately needed help?
And right next to my fury is fear. I can’t imagine not having Tonya with me. I feel like asking where her parents live so I can go over and kick their asses. Fucking fools.
I have some experience gauging the age of scars and hers aren’t that old. But what frightens me the most is that they weren’t a cry for help, the scars run down her wrists, not across and if she tried once, she might try again.
They look deep, her suicide must have been a close call.
I’m afraid to think about what might have happened to drive her to this dark place. I can’t imagine how much she must have been suffering. The thought of it makes me sick to my stomach.
It’s all I can manage not to throw up.
I try to remain calm and don’t let on that I saw anything, but now I understand that there is much more to Tonya than I ever thought. I want to wave a wand and magically make it better, but I know I can’t. Shit doesn’t work like that.
Tonya turns back and looks at me in the mirror. “I’m sorry. She doesn’t know what she’s missing. Wait. Is this what you were wearing when you asked her out?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Connor, you’re nice and all, but Jesus, you may be single
I don’t like it when people say stuff like this, because it always rings like bullshit — I know better.
“Now that I think about it, there was this one guy, just after graduation. He kind of swept me off my feet one night, but he blew me off and never called,” she says and gives me a funny look.
“Any guy that would blow you off is an asshole and doesn’t deserve you,” I say.
“Yeah, so what’s your excuse?’ she asks.
“For what?”
She looks away for a moment. “I mean, you don’t have a girlfriend, why not?”
She starts pulling strips of tape off my fingers and applying the gauze bandages.
“I’ve had lots of girlfriends.”
“I mean a real girlfriend.”
“Oh, one of those. It’s been a low priority for a few years. My life has been what sociologists clinically refer to as a cluster-fuck, I saw a special on PBS about it.”
She grins. “So what’s up with the Cameo? That your Mom’s?”
I hold it up and look at it.
“Yeah.”
She nods and lets it go.
Tonya knows some about my past, but since the other night, I think she has guessed a lot more. She’s pretty intuitive. And she pats me on the head when I need it, but she doesn’t cut me a lot of slack or buy into the melancholy thing. I think that’s why I like her so much. I know she cares about me, would do almost anything for me, but there isn’t any of that ugly pity that most people have. It’s like they take one look at your scars and they think they know everything about you — but the pity changes soon enough and they start treating you like a plague victim, right before the judging starts. I get none of that from Tonya.
“Todd mentioned someone at the bank, what’s her story?” she asks.
“Todd talks too much.”
She just raises her eyebrows, waiting.
“Yeah, it’s been a few weeks or so since I met her, you know flirting and all that, but I asked her out today and she has a boyfriend, so no dice.”
She finishes with the tape and then slides a plastic shower cap over my head and hugs me from behind, laying her cheek against my shoulder. I grab her hands and hug her back and then I see it for the first time. She always wears long sleeved shirts and goofy wrist bands that she’s died black or fingerless gloves or both. I never thought about them before.
But when I grab her arms, I pull one of the wrist bands back and see the scars that she’s been trying to hide.
Motherfuck!
I’m suddenly seething and it takes all my concentration to stay still, just barely controlling my anger. What the fuck happened to push her this far? How could this have happened? Who was asleep at the fucking switch to not see that she desperately needed help?
And right next to my fury is fear. I can’t imagine not having Tonya with me. I feel like asking where her parents live so I can go over and kick their asses. Fucking fools.
I have some experience gauging the age of scars and hers aren’t that old. But what frightens me the most is that they weren’t a cry for help, the scars run down her wrists, not across and if she tried once, she might try again.
They look deep, her suicide must have been a close call.
I’m afraid to think about what might have happened to drive her to this dark place. I can’t imagine how much she must have been suffering. The thought of it makes me sick to my stomach.
It’s all I can manage not to throw up.
I try to remain calm and don’t let on that I saw anything, but now I understand that there is much more to Tonya than I ever thought. I want to wave a wand and magically make it better, but I know I can’t. Shit doesn’t work like that.
Tonya turns back and looks at me in the mirror. “I’m sorry. She doesn’t know what she’s missing. Wait. Is this what you were wearing when you asked her out?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Connor, you’re nice and all, but Jesus, you may be single
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