“Take it, keep it, it's
yours now,” she said.
“What am I supposed to do
with it?” he said.
“You'll figure something
out, I’m sure.”
He tugged at the hair
curling at his temples. She loved his curls like natural waves, kissing his
brow, but she knew that if she told him how much she loved them, he would get
rid of them, taking the scissors to his own hair.
“Do what you want with it,” she
said. “I trust you.”
“Why do you put me in these
situations? What kind of terrible person are you?”
She recoiled slightly, as
though an invisible hand had smacked her once, hard, across the face, feeling
the tide of blood clouding her skin, and she was ashamed; ashamed for
asking this of him when, actually, it was really all her fault.
He took her hand and looked
at her with eyes as wide and blue as oceans.
“Help me,” he said.
She turned away, and
in this simple act, she felt removed from him, from them, from it.
“I trust you,” was all
she said.
Lauren Bell
This Savage Song
V.E. Schwab
