Fourteen by C.M. Smith (short story to read .txt) 📕

help you?” I asked, my voice trembling as I gripped the doorknob tightly and wished that my father were home.

Not that he would do anything about it, anyway. He adored Evan’s father and the rest of his damn family. But at least he would’ve been there, and Evan wouldn’t have been able to—well, I didn’t know what he wanted to do. But either way, he wouldn’t have been able to do it with my father home.

Evan shifted uncomfortably, shuffling his feet on the blue welcome mat that had been there ever since I could remember. He gripped the strap of his book bag, looked at his feet, and shrugging one shoulder.

“I just thought that maybe we should start on this thing. The sooner we do, the sooner we get it finished.”

The sooner you get to stop associating with me.

“I told you that I’d take care of it.”

“I’m just as capable as you are, Arianna,” he snapped, looking up at me and glaring. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”

I looked down at my feet.

“You know nothing about me.” He sounded on edge.

I instantly shied away from him, shielding myself behind the door, and tried to control the sudden flow of tears.

“I just thought that . . . since you obviously don’t want to work with me, I could . . . you wouldn’t have to . . .” My voice caught, and I hid my face from him, working myself completely behind the door. “Can we not start this tonight?”

“Shit, Arianna, I want to . . .” He slapped the doorjamb, and I flinched, my hand tightening on the doorknob. “Let me see your wrist.”

“It’s fine. Please leave.”

“It’s not fine because you’re still being careful with it. Let me see it.”

“Why? You want to make it worse?”

“No!” he shouted, and I needed that hole to open up and swallow me now. He huffed out a breath and seemed to stand up a little straighter. “I just want to see it.”

“I don’t—”

His shoulders slumped, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed hard.

“Just let me see your wrist. I won’t hurt you.”

I didn’t move, my entire body shaking as I stood on the other side of the door, wondering why it was so important. It was easy to see that I was of no importance to him, so why was he so adamant about seeing my wrist? What did he want to gain from it? He said that he wouldn’t hurt me, but I never believed he’d do it the first time—why would I willingly hand over the same part of my body he’d already bruised?

“Arianna, I promise that I won’t hurt you again. I just want to see it.” His voice wasn’t as hard as it had been before.

“Why?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“I want to make sure it’s okay.”

“It’s fine. I told you that.”

“And I told you that it wasn’t.”

“Will you leave then?”

“If you want me to.”

“I do.”

“Then I’ll leave after you show it to me.”

I cautiously stepped out from behind the door and pulled it open a little more.

“Can I come in?”

“Why?”

“It’s getting dark out here. I won’t be able to see very well.”

I stepped back as he pushed the door open and walked in, closing it behind him and dropping his book bag to the floor. I held my arm out to him, and my heart thundered in my chest as he gently grabbed my hand. He flexed my wrist back and forth, his face blank, but that was before he pressed two fingers against the bruises. I cried out and immediately pulled my hand back from him, holding it to my chest. He stared at my wrist, reaching up to rub the back of his neck.

“Will you put it against your other one?” he asked, finally meeting my eyes again.

“For what?”

“Will you just do it?” he snapped.

I flinched, and his face fell.

“You should uh . . . you should put some ice on it,” he said. “It won’t be so puffy tomorrow if you do.”

I was at a loss for words. He actually seemed concerned.

“Okay.”

“I guess I’ll go now,” he mumbled, reaching down and grabbing his book bag. “We should figure out something to do for the science fair, maybe tomorrow in class or something.”

“Yeah.” I looked down at my feet.

He hesitated, and I looked up at him. He hastily pulled the door open and walked out. I closed the door behind him, locked it, and walked back up to my room.

Maybe there wasn’t anything more to Evan Drake after all. Maybe I just wished that there were because I really wanted there to be something more underneath the shallowness and the pretty face. Maybe I just wanted someone like him to be a good person because there weren’t very many at my school.

Maybe I just needed to stop hoping for things. It never got me anything but hurt, and I was really tired of hurting.

Dad came home around six-thirty, explaining that they’d gotten a huge case and he hadn’t been able to call. He handed me the food he’d bought on the way home and then sat down in front of the television for the rest of the night while I did my homework.

He didn’t ask about the ice pack I held to my wrist. He didn’t ask how my day was. He didn’t ask if everything was okay when it clearly was not.

I wished I could be as invisible to my classmates like I was to my father sometimes. It would make my life a hell of a lot easier in the long run.

I kept my head down, and my hands shoved into the pocket of my hoodie as I made my way up to the front of the school the next morning. When I woke up, the last person I wanted to see and deal with in my first period class was Evan. So I’d spent most of the morning, trying to convince myself that, yes, I