Sweet Damage ≫ jb & kj

Chapter 5 - Goodmorning.

KYLIES POV

When I wake the next morning he's gone. I roll onto my back and sigh, assuming he's done a runner, I knew no one like Justin would want anything to do with me. But he appears a minute later with two steaming mugs of coffee.
   "Hey." I sit up. "Good morning."
   "Hey yourself," he smiles. He hands me both mugs then climbs up onto the bed. I adjust sitting cross-legged on top of the doona.
    "So," I say, takin my mug back. "I have to say             something."
    "Okay."
    "God, this is hard." I take a deep breath. "Well, first of all, last night was great, don't get me wrong. It was so nice spending that time with you, and getting to know you. And sleeping with you." I smile shyly.

"But I feel I have to say, well, that I don't want you to feel obliged to me in any way. I mean . . ." I pause and breathe again, I can feel my cheeks now burning red. "I like you. I like you a lot. And I know that it's only been a few days, but you're just so great. But I know that – especially to someone like you, Justin – the whole anxiety thing, and the situation with my family and me being reportedly missing, it must seem really full on. Something you probably wouldn't want to get involved with. And I understand that. I understand completely."

JUSTINS POV

  She puts her hand on my knee over the sheet, and runs her thumb around and around while she speaks, in a way that I find very distracting.
"Just, please, don't think that you have to feel sorry for me. If you don't want to . . . if you don't like me that way, I can deal with it. Trust me. I've dealt with a lot worse in my life."

I could back off at this point. I could apologise and tell her that I've reconsidered. She's giving me the perfect chance. And a few weeks ago I would have done exactly that. I would have run a thousand miles from Kylie and such a messy situation. Instead, I decide to let this happen. Primarily, I guess, I'm in lust. I want to have sex with her. The idea of it was planted firmly in my mind the day before, when she kissed me, when I felt her boobs against my chest, smelt the clean tang of her hair. And now she has her hand on my knee and even though I don't think she means it that way, the movement of her fingertips feels incredibly sexy.

   Also, the fact that Kylie has just been so courageous makes me feel that I should be equally brave. She's taking a risk, so why shouldn't I? And what is there to lose, anyway? What's the worst that can happen? And then there's Selena. I'm sick of myself and how pathetic I am around her: the way I always make myself available whenever she wants me, the way I always end up feeling bruised and angry afterwards. I don't fully understand the hold Selena has over me, but I know that it's destructive, damaging. A new relationship could be the perfect antidote – the cure to my obsession with Selena.

"My dad told me I should always have an opened mind, be willing to try anything," I say.

"He did?"

"More or less. Yeah. He did."

"He probably didn't have me in mind when he said that."
"Who knows what he had in mind," I say. "I get to interpret it anyway way I like. I'm not worried about your anxiety. I don't care. I know you'll get better."
    Kylie smiles then, and it's such an enormous and unabashedly happy smile that it makes me laugh.  I grab her hand, rub my thumb over the soft skin of her palm. I have loads of questions, but I decide on just asking about her father. I know who he is, Bruce Jenner. I've seen him in the television plenty of times, I remember my father used to watch him when I was younger, during the olympics.

"Can I ask you question? About your father?"
Her smile fades. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't move away or tell me to shut up, either. Eventually she nods.
    "What has happened?"
Her eyes fill with tears. She sits up straighter, and tries to pull her hand away from mine, but I don't let go. She starts to cry. A stream of tears runs down her cheeks, her neck, into the neckband of her t-shirt, so that it is soon stained dark. She cries without making a noise. She doesn't try to wipe her tears away, or hide them. Instead she stairs straight ahead, at some point directly over my shoulder, and let's them fall. It's as if, just by mentioning her fathers name, I've smashed down a dam wall. There are so many tears.

    I'm alarmed at first, sure I've done the wrong thing. I've never seen someone cry like this before and I don't know how to stop it or how to help her. But eventually it occur to me that it's okay. It's not my job to stop it, not even my job to try and make her feel better. The best I can do is just stay here with her.
Let her cry.
    I don't know how long we sit there like that. I do know that she cries for ages, that my back starts to ache from sitting in one position for so long, and the palms of our hands grow sweaty together. At some point I lean forward and use a corner of the sheet to dry her cheeks; the top of her lip. I don't let go of her hand, and she doesn't move or react. She just keeps on crying. Just when I'm desperate to move, and about to ask if she needs a glass of water or another coffee, she takes a deep, shaky breath.

"He raped me for the first time just over six months ago now," she says.