Page 21 of Salvation (Clover-Hills #1)

Blake

W e spent hours dusting, sweeping, and wiping down every surface in the house on Sunday.

Over the course of a few days, we’ve also bagged and boxed up items to donate and take to the dump.

We haven’t even started on the outside of the house, but we’re feeling accomplished at how much we’ve done and how much better it already looks.

I thought it was charming from the start, but I do suppose it did need a few touches to make it even more appealing.

Elain even tagged along with me to pick up some necessities.

The few times I’ve tried to ask about her parents or if she has any friends, she’s shut down almost completely every time.

I know there’s more to Elain. A reason she works at the anti-weed shop for free.

A reason why she took a job cleaning up an old house with a stranger.

It’s been abundantly clearer the longer we’ve spent together.

“Why did you move to New York?” Elain asks from where she leans against the island, flipping through an old, worn cookbook.

I pause, fingers stilling on a broken lamp as I mull over her words. It was a far more personal question than I was expecting, but I quickly shake it off and answer, “Dreamed of doing it since I was a little girl. I always wanted to write.”

“Then why come back? I don’t think I ever would.”

The look in her eye is the same one I’ve seen in my own, and it makes my chest burn.

Elain and I have gotten to know each other on a friendly basis while we’ve worked on the house, but we’ve never broached deeper topics in hopes of keeping the atmosphere light and playful.

I think we’ve both been using this time as an escape and have been content with just that.

But how do I tell her that even at my age, life is still just as hard?

I have enough trauma to last me a lifetime, and it’d be a lie if I said I was completely healed, even after leaving the very town that was the root of it all.

There’s nothing like watching your family fall apart, and it’s one of the many reasons I had always planned on leaving town the second I got the chance.

I decided right then and there that I’d try a new approach.

Maybe sharing a piece of myself will make her feel more comfortable.

Make her open up and talk about why her eyes look so sad all of the time.

I didn’t even consider it before because I didn’t think I could handle someone like Elain looking at me differently, but something tells me she won’t.

I finish tossing out the lamp and taping up a few more boxes to donate when I ask a question instead of answering hers, “Do you want to know how I got this scar?”

I’ve seen her eyeing it a few times. Torn on whether it’s inappropriate or not to ask such a question. It’s faded, not nearly as horrible as when it was fresh, but it’s still gnarly enough that it always catches glances when I do leave it exposed.

“My father was a drunk,” I speak before she can utter a word. “After my parents got divorced and my mother went to rehab, it got worse. He was never violent before, but…but I think,” I pause, looking down at the scar. “I think a part of him, the good part, died the day my mother left him for good.”

I cast a glance at her as I finish, and she stiffens. Her hands halted on the book. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“It got me to where I am today,” I shrug. “So, I guess some good always comes out of the bad, right?”

“Yeah,” She lets her shoulders drop a smidge. “I guess it does.”

I can tell she wants to say something more, but I don’t push it. I want to be someone she can run to, not from. Baby steps first.