“It’s okay,” he said, his fingers tight around the hem of the shirt, holding it down when she reached out once more, determined to take it off him.
Her brow was furrowed for just a moment or two before he saw realization dawn. Erin had never seen him without his shirt—and she was only just now comprehending that.
“Gavin,” she started, her confusion turning to concern. Which meant he was doing a piss-poor job of shielding his panic.
“I’ll go change. I have some stain stuff I can use.”
He started to leave, but Erin blocked his path. “Take off your shirt.”
He frowned. “No.”
“Why not?”
“What?”
She crossed her arms and repeated herself slowly. “Why. Not?”
He wondered if she hadn’t had such a shitty day, if her emotions hadn’t already been too close to the surface, if she would have pushed him. Then he decided she would. She had a habit of pushing, and for some reason he let her get away with it, when with others, he pushed back harder and walked away.
“Let it go, Erin,” he said, adopting a tone that would have warned off most people.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, genuine apprehension in her gaze.
“No.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Fuck. No. I’m fine.” Then, because he didn’t know what else to say, he pointed at her shirt. “You got sauce on you too.”
She glanced down at her top—she was still in her scrubs—and sighed. “So I do.” Holding his gaze, she reached down and pulled her top off, her hair falling over her bare shoulders as she stood before him in just her bra.
It belatedly occurred to him that this was the second time in a week he’d seen her in some state of undress. It hadn’t registered until just this minute that she’d been completely naked the night of the fire. That he’d been the one to dress her.
Shouldn’t the two of them have felt some sort of unease over that? He didn’t. And given the fact she didn’t hesitate to take her shirt off now, it was clear she wasn’t uncomfortable with it either.
Gavin wasn’t sure how to feel about anything these days. He closed his eyes briefly, not opening them until he heard her stepping away, the water of the sink running.
Gavin took two steps toward the door, ready to make a quick, cowardly escape.
She stopped him when she said, “You know, I tell you everything.” Her voice was soft and sad. “You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had. Talking to you always makes me feel better. I hope…” She paused, and Gavin swallowed hard, bracing himself for the rest. “I hope someday you’ll trust me enough to let me in.”
Gavin gripped the doorframe, fighting to leave as hard as he was fighting to stay. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched Erin scrubbing the stain out of her shirt with a vengeance. She didn’t look in his direction when he turned back toward her.
She straightened when he tossed his T-shirt over her head, into the water with hers.
But he gripped her shoulders before she could turn around. She struggled for a second, and he held her tight, stopping her with one word.
“Don’t.” His tone dark, harsh, even to his own ears.
Erin froze.
“My mother isn’t dead.”
“What?”
“She didn’t die. She was committed…to a psychiatric hospital.”
Erin tried to turn around again, but he stopped her again. “No. Don’t move.”
“Gavin—”
“My mother was brutally raped. That’s how she got pregnant with me. I have no idea if…if that attack changed her into the woman I knew. Or if she was always so… She’s a sociopath and a drunk, Erin. A mean, abusive one. She started…hurting me when I was six. Not sure what snapped in her at that point, or if she just decided I was suddenly old enough to be her whipping boy.”
“Gavin—” she started again.
“When she was drunk or in one of her black rages, she beat me, told me I ruined her life. I was never sure if it was me she was punishing during those times or if…if in her twisted, sick mind, she thought I was the man who’d hurt her. And then, when she was sober, she’d beg for my forgiveness, always promising it was the last time, that she’d get better, swearing she loved me, telling me I was all she had.”
Erin stopped trying to turn around. She remained quiet, and if he wasn’t standing here with his guts ripped out, he might have been amused by the fact that he’d actually rendered the queen of talkers speechless.
“She never got better.”
“Oh God,” she breathed, the sound shaky, betraying how close she was to tears.
“I just wanted you to know that, so you’d understand when…you see me.”
Erin nodded but didn’t try to move. Not until he released his grip on her shoulders and took a step back. Even then, she remained as she was for a second, and he watched as she straightened her spine. He knew her well enough to know she was preparing herself, digging deep to find that strength he’d just told her he admired. Maybe never more so than in this moment.
When she turned around, she kept her eyes on his, and if she’d shed tears as he spoke, she’d gotten them under control now. He held his breath when her gaze lowered.
She didn’t say anything as she looked at his chest, at the scars, some hidden behind the tattoos, others still waiting to be concealed.
Erin started to circle him slowly, her eyes missing nothing as she looked at the long, jagged white scar on his arm, evidence of that final blow, the slice of the knife.
She stopped when she stood behind him.
His back was the worst, he knew it. When he was younger, he’d always turned away from his mother, the reaction sheer protective instinct, so his back had taken the brunt of the abuse—the cuts from broken liquor bottles, the cigarette burns. Bruises faded and went away. Cuts and burns left a lasting stain.
He’d always wondered if that had been his mother’s intent. If she’d wanted him to have visible proof of just exactly who he belonged to. After all, he couldn’t look at himself in the mirror and not think of her, every single time his gaze landed on the scars.
Gavin braced himself in case Erin reached out to touch him, holding himself still as stone. Oliver was the only one who’d ever touched his scars, and it was taking everything he had not to walk away from her, out of this room.
When she completed her circle, she stopped in front of him, her hands still by her side.
“Thank you for showing me. For trusting me,” she whispered.
He nodded, unable to speak.
The softness in her eyes turned to what he’d come to know as pure Moretti steel when she added, “And if I ever meet your mother, I’m ripping every fucking hair out of her scalp. And then I’m gonna get serious.”
Gavin wasn’t sure what he’d expected her to say, but it wasn’t that, and he couldn’t hold back the loud bark of laughter. Erin didn’t share his mirth, her anger over his scars too new, too hot. He’d had a lifetime to look at them, so it was easier for him.
He reached out and grabbed her, pulled her into his arms for a hug, no longer worried about her touching him. When she wrapped her arms around his, her fingers brushing over the scars, he waited for the horror to sink in. It didn’t.