I remember our first big fight. It was almost the end of us. I can't stand confrontation, and you have that Italian-Irish passion that can so easily flare up for better or worse. I can't even remember now what exactly the fight was about, something stupid, I'm sure. I started nit-picking, nagging you about something even though I saw how tired you were, knowing it wouldn't end well, and you exploded. The main thing that sticks out in my mind is that I didn't even make it to the elevator in your building before you were running after me, apologizing for yelling and pleading with me not to leave. I've always wondered why you looked so worried, so scared, as you ran after me. Like you'd just had a nightmare, or a flashback to something you couldn't handle alone.
.
.
.
A few weeks after our one-year anniversary, you met up with me at my place. I originally planned on us spending the afternoon at the harbor, but when you showed up, you were looking a bit under the weather. You had dark circles under your eyes, your cheeks were sunken, and while I knew you were working on eating healthier, it looked like you had lost a little too much weight. I'm starting to worry.
"Babe, are you okay?" I feel your forehead, your temperature seems normal,
"I'm fine."
"You sure? 'Cause, don't take this the wrong way, but you're looking really pale and a little too thin. Are you sleeping alright?"
"Seriously, don't worry about me. No, I haven't been sleeping all that well, but I'm fine." You press a little longer before I let it drop,
"Well, how about we just stay in tonight?" I pull you to the couch and make you sit and help me pick a movie, and while you set it up, I start some tea for you. I bring you your mug and join you on the couch, throwing my arms around your shoulders, but you hiss in pain and jerk away.
"Whoa, what happened? What did I do?"
"No, it wasn't you, sorry. I'm just sore."
"What from?"
"I already told you I'm not feeling well, that's all, just don't worry about it." I move my arm, and catch a glimpse of a darkened patch on your back, just over your shoulder blade but low enough that your shirt almost covered it.
"Babe, what's this?" I pull the back of your shirt down to get a better look, but you shrug my hands away, trying to ignore the question.
"It's nothing, I just bruise easy. I'm pushing play."
"No, not yet, this is bad, who did this?" You keep fighting against me, pushing my hands away, but not before I peeled back your collar far enough to see the blossom of blue and black as it crawled down your shoulder blade,
"No one did it, Chris, I probably just ran into something."
"This isn't just a bump," I make you look at me, "Is someone hurting you?"
"No," you laugh, but I can't quite believe it. You look too skittish, "I just bruise easily, I don't even know where most of them come from—"
"That's bull! This isn't funny, what aren't you telling me?" Your smile falls and you look like you want to slap me for just a moment, but instead you take a slow breath,
"Chris, if there's something I'm not telling you, I assure you there is a good reason." You jump up, looking ready to leave, but I'm not finished. I catch your arm and spin you back to me,
"Listen," holding your forearms, I ignore your hiss of pain as you try to squirm away, "I understand the need to keep certain things to yourself, but now is not the time. If I find someone has been hurting you, God help them." Your eyes begin to tear, but I'm not sure if it's because of my grip or if I maybe struck a chord, "Was it an ex? Who was it?"
"Chris, you're the one hurting me right now. Nothing is going on that you need to know about." I finally let you twist out of my grasp; rubbing your wrists, you snatch up your purse, and head for the door.
"But something is going on, isn't it?" I whisper, my pulse roaring in my ears as my imagination runs wild. My hands shake at the thought of you seeing someone else, clenching to fists at the thought of him hitting you.
"You don't understand." You toss over your shoulder, "Just don't worry about it."
"Ya know, the more you tell me not to worry, the more I worry. Why don't you want to tell me?"
You spin around at the door, anger flashing in your eyes,
"Maybe it's none of your damn business!" you storm out, the door slamming so hard the picture beside it nearly shakes off the wall.
I sink back down onto the couch, seething. This isn't our first fight, we both seem to have inherited the explosive Irish temper, but something about this felt different.
Something was off.
Something was very very wrong.
