The first being that now there was kissing involved. Lots and lots of kissing.

I was attracted to Flynn. Very attracted. Sure, he was strange and awkward and his manners were worse than mine. But I wasn’t looking for a gentleman. I wasn’t looking for someone who would hold the door open for me or say bless you when I sneezed. That stuff was really unimportant.

Because what Flynn was outweighed that trivial bullshit women think is essential in the men they want in their lives. Flynn was tender. Flynn was kind. Flynn wanted to make me happy.

Flynn forgave without question, even when my reemerging guilt told me I didn’t deserve it. Because the lingering knowledge of my crime hung heavy over me. I couldn’t forget that Flynn had no idea what really happen all those years ago. The night that ruined my life and killed his dog.

It threatened to overshadow everything. The closer we became, the more I wanted to tell him. But I was scared. I didn’t want to lose the way he looked at me. I didn’t want to lose this growing relationship that was becoming the deepest experience of my life.

I was selfish. Was there ever a doubt? I was thinking only of myself. What it would mean to me if Flynn were ever to discover the truth.

I wasn’t being fair. He needed to know. But I just couldn’t tell him. Not now.

We didn’t talk much about high school and the way I had treated him. Part of me wanted to avoid the topic all together. I wish I could go back to pretending I hadn’t been a heinous bitch. For years I had justified my behavior. I had convinced myself that Flynn hadn’t really been my friend. That our relationship hadn’t mattered to me at all. I had forced myself to forget the details. It made it easier for me to accept that I had caused immeasurable damage for no real reason at all.

Flynn would mention things sometimes that reminded me of how good things had been. He brought up the time I had taught him to play the guitar.

I wasn’t a great musician but I had been able to carry a tune. Flynn however, had been horrible. But it had been fun now that I was allowing myself to remember.

“Do you still play the guitar?” Flynn had asked me and it hit me that I hadn’t thought about playing music in years.

Not since I was sixteen. Not since going to juvie.

It was yet another thing I had lost and had made myself forget that I had enjoyed.

So of course the next time I saw Flynn, he handed me a battered guitar case and gave me a shy smile.

“What’s this?” I asked, slowly reaching out to take it.

“Open it,” Flynn grinned and I could only shake my head. I set the case down on his living room floor and bent down to release the clasps. I opened the top and stared down at a very used, but still beautiful, Taylor acoustic guitar.

“Shit, Flynn. This must have cost a fortune. Taylor guitars are expensive,” I exclaimed, hardly able to believe he had done this. He paid attention to absolutely everything. There wasn’t a thing about me that he hadn’t catalogued away and remembered.

Why did he care about me so much? What had I ever done to deserve it?

“Don’t cuss, Ellie,” Flynn reprimanded flatly. I chuckled and apologized.

I ran a finger down the worn neck. It was a lot nicer than the beater I used to have when I was fifteen. That one had a broken neck I had tried to fix with super glue. After my shoddy repair job it would never stay in tune. The frets had been cracked and chipped and it had been missing a couple of tuning pegs.

This one, while obviously second hand, was gorgeous. I carefully picked it up and sat down cross-legged, with the guitar resting in my lap. I wrapped my left hand around the neck, pressing down. I ran my fingers along the strings.

“I used to like listening to you play. I liked it when you taught me. I want you to play again. It made you happy. You used to smile a lot when you played,” Flynn said, sitting down beside me and watching my hands as they fumbled through the few chords I could still remember. It had been a long time, so I was rusty.

“I can’t believe you did this for me, Flynn.” My voice cracked and broke, the emotion strangling me. My tears embarrassed me.

But Flynn had reminded me that it was okay to cry. That tears didn’t make me weak; that letting them fall didn’t have to mean that I was broken. It could mean that I was coming back together.

Flynn placed his hand on my leg. I looked down to where he was touching me and then up at his face. He very rarely initiated touch. Physical and emotional intimacy on any level was a new thing for both of us. He wasn’t used to touching anyone. I wasn’t used to being touched by someone that actually cared about me.

But when he did touch me, my heart would with swell with the force of my feelings for him. To him I was precious and wanted. I had never, in all my life, been adored the way he adored me. Not when I was a child being shuttled from one foster home to the next. Not when I was a teenager using sex as a means to connect. And certainly not as an adult when I had come to accept my emotional isolation and stopped trying to feel anything at all.

“Play something for me,” Flynn urged, his fingers pressing into my thigh. The warmth of his hand burned me.

I reached up and brushed his hair from his forehead. He stiffened but allowed it.

“Can I kiss you first? To say thank you?” I always asked him if I could kiss him. I was still feeling out his comfort level. And every time I asked, I held my breath until he consented. Waiting for that time he would finally reject me and turn away. I didn’t want to think about what I would do if that ever happened.