Free Salvation by Noelle Adams Page A

down to my wrist, and I thought he was nearly finished. But then he started up my arm again, and this time his fingers were under the fabric, pushing up my sleeve as he went.
    It felt even better and even worse. He was touching my skin, and the resulting sensations were pleasant, soothing, really good. And I simply couldn’t feel good.
    For the first time, I looked over at him, trying to figure out a way to tell him to stop without worrying or offending him. But, as I looked over, I saw he wasn’t watching TV anymore. He was looking down at my inner forearm and the inside of my elbow.
    And I knew—I knew —what he was doing. He was checking it. Because I always wore long sleeves. He was checking to see if I was cutting myself or doing drugs or something. He was using the excuse of the massage to pry even more.
    I jerked my arm out of his grip and glared at him coldly, pushing my sleeve back down.
    He saw the look and understood it. He knew I knew what he’d been doing and how I felt about it, so I didn’t have to say anything.
    He wasn’t actually wrong. It just wasn’t taking the form he suspected.
    We sat in silence for a couple of minutes, the only sounds in the room from the television. He was looking at me, but I wasn’t looking at him. I was staring down at the bottle of water I’d picked up.
    “Diana,” he said at last.
    “What?” I snapped out the one word, more harshly than I’d intended.
    “I’m not trying to crowd you.”
    “Well, you’re managing to do it anyway.”
    “You might not believe me, but I’m trying really hard not to. I just worry about you.”
    “Well, I don’t want you to worry about me. I don’t like it. So just stop.”
    He made a brief, guttural noise that might have been an ironic laugh or might have been an exclamation of disbelief. “You think I can just stop thinking about you?”
    “Well, that’s how I feel too. I can’t make myself get better and be normal again. And you’re expecting me to. Everyone is expecting me to. But I can’t do it.” My voice broke a few times, and I didn’t like the emotion I heard in it, so I cleared my throat and tried to stop the shaking that was still rising inside me.
    I wasn’t about to cry, though. Dr. Jones had asked at our last session when was the last time I’d cried, and I didn’t have an answer for her. I couldn’t even remember.
    “I am not expecting you to just make yourself better overnight.” Gideon sounded almost offended, which was unusual enough to get my attention. “Do not attribute that motive to me.”
    “Well, that’s what it feels like, with all your watching and scrutinizing and analyzing every move I make.”
    He leaned over to put his beer on the coffee table. The bottle was empty anyway. “That is not what’s happening here.”
    “Then what is happening? What exactly do you expect of me?”
    “I don’t expect anything except for you to be honest with me. Or with anyone, really. And I don’t really think you are.”
    He’d gotten closer to me in his urgency, and I scooted away slightly, since his intense presence and big body was too close, too troubling. “I’m being as honest as I can right now.”
    It was a lie, but it was one I thought would pass, since it was close to the truth.
    “No, you’re not. You’re hiding everything you really feel. You’re playing this part you think other people want to see. You’re acting like you’re getting better when I know that something important isn’t right. I know it, Diana. And I’m going to keep looking for it until you tell me what it is.”
    I jumped to my feet, feeling assaulted and cornered by his words. “What right do you have to expect anything from me? I didn’t even know you a few months ago. We might as well still be strangers. Going through one horrible night together doesn’t suddenly make us best friends. What gives you the right to pry into my privacy this way?”
    I was breathing too heavily and felt naked and exposed,