All I Ever Knew Was Your Name [Nick Robinson]

FIFTEEN

I swallow hard. "I don't—"

"What were you thinking about?" he pushes. "You can tell me."

I don't answer. I know that if I do, I'll make a complete idiot of myself. It's better to keep my mouth shut. And although he's got my mind running around in circles with the thought of my not-so-secret desires, he's not diluting the thoughts of fear and worry I possess.

I'm afraid for him. Something is wrong, and no amount of flirtatiousness will change that.

"Nick, I—" I stop, my words catching in my throat. He can see that I'm not feeding into the charismatic behavior he's radiating purposefully to stray my mind from my worrisome thoughts. He knows they're there. I can tell by the newly found seriousness on his lips. "I think we should go to the park."

He shakes his head, looking confused. "Why?"

"This person— whoever they are — I want to know who he is, and I want to confront him. This is the second time in a week he's done something to you," I try to act stern, but I wonder if I'm coming off as soft as I truly am.

In all reality, my proposal is a test. If there really is someone at the park causing physical damage to him, he can take me there and prove it to me. If not, then I'm about to find out.

"What do you think you're going to do to him?" he scoffs, appearing defensive.

I shrug off the saltiness in his voice. It's a defense mechanism. "I don't know, Nick. But maybe if I know who he is, I'll—"

"You'll what, Mary?" he interrupts, standing to his feet. He most certainly has put a wall up, and I can tell I've made him angry. Not enough to push him away, but enough for him to maybe tell me the truth. "What exactly will you do?"

"I don't know!" I growl. "I'll tell him to stop! Jesus, anything is better than getting the shit kicked out of you on a weekly basis!"

He looks to the side. I can tell he's on edge by the way his relaxed fingers have turned into fists. "You don't know him. It's not that simple."

"Do you know who he is?" I ask. He doesn't respond. He looks at the ground, appearing ashamed. "Nick, what's his name?"

He shakes his head, looking up at me only briefly. "It doesn't matter, Mary. Now drop it."

"It does matter! I want to know who's doing this to you!"

"What does it matter? He's not going to stop whether you know who he is or not. Just take it as it is, then drop it," he turns on his heels and heads towards my bedroom door.

I step forwards to follow. "Where are you going?"

He spins around to face me before he can exit the room. We're close— very close, actually. But I'm too angry at him to allow it to get to me. I can tell our minimal distance shakes him a little bit by the way his eyes soften.

"I need to be by myself," he says quietly.

"So, that's it? You're just not going to tell me anything else?" I ask, the softness of my voice matching his. My eyes search his desperately, looking for any kind of sign that will tell me what's wrong.

He shakes his head, sadness and defeat crossing his expression. "There's nothing else to say, Mary."

I don't say anything for a moment because I really don't know what to say. What can I say to someone who is clearly struggling, but won't let me in?

My chest is tight. It's so tight it actually hurts. The lump in my throat is instigating me. I know that if I breathe in, it'll be staggered. I feel as if I'm holding my breath anyways. I feel as if I blink, tears will stream from my eyes without any warning. My heart aches for him in so many ways, and it sucks even more because I don't know exactly why I feel that way yet. He won't give me a reason, which is almost worse than actually having a reason.