what we do best

part nine

I don't see Tristan until Monday at lunch.

"Ollie, oh my god!" I wait for him outside the library, like always. He traces a hand gingerly along my cut cheeks. I wince, and he pulls away. "Come on."

He pulls me into the bathroom adjacent to the library, a single stalled bathroom with harsh lighting and white walls. He tugs my shirt over my head and inspects my bruises. I stare at the lights and let him run his hands down my chest.

"Was it your dad? You need to tell someone. Why didn't you tell me?" His hands hold me gently.

"It wasn't my dad."

"Oh, Ollie," Tristan hands me back my shirt and bites his nails as I put it back on. "Who was it, then?"

"Just some boys who like to fuck with me. It's stupid, really," I lace my fingers through his.

"Who are they? And why?" His eyes beg me to give him answers I don't have.

"They just don't like the looks of me, I guess. I don't want to talk about it" I sink to the floor of the bathroom.

Tris kneels next to me. Open wounds mark their place on his wrist, fresh and angry. He turns his arm over so I can't see and pulls me into him. "I don't want to talk about it," he whispers.

Neither of us want to talk about it. So, we don't. We sit on the bathroom floor until the bell rings. His hands found their way through my hair, and his lips found my cheeks. I still can't find him, though.