The Pull

Chapter 14

I took a deep breath, thinking for a bit. For some reason he made me want to be honest. He made me feel like I didn't need to hide who I was, but I had spent so many years not thinking about so many things it was hard saying them out loud. But I still did.

"Not so often these days. But when I was younger, I got them a lot. "

"Have you gotten any help for it? I remember your reaction to me mentioning the counsellor from the hospital." He leaned against the kitchen counter.

"Repeatedly since I was sixteen. Some of it has been helpful, a lot of it not so much."

He searched my face. He didn't look at me with that all too familiar look of either pity or distance, but with warmth in his eyes. It made me want to cry again, so I turned to look at my hands.

"Ok, Puck: I get that there is more to you than meets the eye. I don't know what happened to you. And I might be out of line here, so I apologize in advance, but I feel I need to say this, to make it really clear: you know you're not to blame for Mark attacking you, right? It doesn't matter what you did or didn't do. It doesn't matter what experiences you took with you into that relationship. It doesn't matter, none of it matter. There is only one person to blame here: him. He decided to abuse you. He made that choice and that has nothing to do with you."

While he spoke, I felt my heart pounding in my chest. Like a hammer, like it was trying to punch its way out of there. How the hell did he know? How was it even possible, him standing there saying the very thing I was thinking, that I was always thinking: I'm damaged, I put myself in situations that end up bad for me, I invite people to use me, hurt me. I couldn't help thinking Mark wasn't like this until he met me. I brought it out of him. I always turned people bad. Everyone but Emma. And Ezra. I would turn Ben bad. He was going to go bad if we got closer than this.

It was like he sensed my thoughts, because suddenly he got up from his leaned in position and closed the distance between us. He cupped my face with both of his hands, making me meet his gaze.

"I may not know you well enough for you to trust me, or to know what's going on in that gorgeous head of yours. But that goes both ways: you don't know me well enough to know that I have some experience. I do. I've seen that look on your face before, on someone else. I know what it means. I know what that kind of hurt you carry around looks like. So, I want you to know, Puck: I will never judge you. I will never not listen. And nothing you say or do will scare me." The water was boiling, but he kept my gaze for a moment more, before releasing me and turning to the stove.

"Where do you stash the leafs, Rachel?" He smirked at me.

"The cabinet in front of you. No tea bags though, it's in that brown bag. It's my favorite blend. And the pot's got a built-in filter for the leaves, so just pour it in there." He raised a brow at me.

"Does it, now? You sure you're not a limey yourself?"

"No, but I am half Swedish. They love their coffee but are also quite snobbish when it comes to tea. When I grew up, my mom always had a cup of this blend in her hands. With milk in it."

"Ok, you are so not British. Milk?! That's just wrong." He scrunched his nose at me. I chuckled.

"I love it. It's the best. And lots of honey."

"The honey I agree on." He poured the shattered leaves in the pot, spreading that delicious smell I loved so much. The smell of those brighter days of my childhood, of me and Ezra playing in a backyard in Spain, or on a beach in one of Greece's smaller islands. Of watching the rain stain the window in our small apartment in Zagreb or feeling the evening sun heat up my face while laying flat on my back on the roof of that house our mother rented in Italy.