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You have a lot of scars.
You used to spend a lot of time looking at them, cataloging them in the mirror every night before bed, recounting the stories to yourself--the true story and the cover story for each. There's the one on your elbow that you told your teachers was from when you fell off your bike, but you don't own one; you'd been running away from your father and he'd caught up to you, pushed you down so that you caught the edge of the coffee table. You can't remember what you'd done wrong, only that you were terrified. There's one on your calf, a burn, that you told them was from standing too close to the fireplace, but your house doesn't have one; Mama was out, you and your brothers were being too loud, so he'd thrown the first thing his meaty fist closed on at you to entertain yourselves with. A box of matches.
There's one on your left hip that makes you sick to look at, from the first time he'd come into your room when you were thirteen, scratching a deep line into your skin when he'd had to hold you down. You always skip over it during your nightly assessment, avoiding your reflection and angry at yourself for being ashamed. You wear that one like a brand, can sometimes feel it rubbing against the waistband of your shorts and chafing in your summer sweat.
She kissed it the first time you slept together, licked along its ridges in a long swipe before she settled between your legs, and you felt it burn for a week afterward.
***
Her scars aren't anywhere on her body, but you can still kiss them away.
You start to see them when her mother brings out a dusty photo album and opens it to the first page; there's a red-faced man with tears in his eyes, holding a tiny blanket-wrapped bundle. Her smile fades so quickly you're half sure you imagined it being there.
She's quiet for the rest of the day, retreating to the dark recesses where sometimes not even Mickey can reach her, but for some reason Ian manages to get through; he can get her to smile again with a few murmured words and a warm hand on her shoulder. You and Mickey watch and try not to be jealous of your respective significant others and best friends going to each other instead of you, try to understand, but you both know you never will. The two of them have their moments, few and far between, but they keep each other's secrets in a vault.
Ian sees the scars you and Mickey don't acknowledge having, the ones that cut deeper than any physical mark ever could, and tries to guide you through like an older brother, waits patiently like a middle child, is sometimes petulant like he's still the baby.
You think about your deepest one, one that you thought would gash across your stomach right where you couldn't rest your clammy hands, where you could feel the monster spawn in you churning, because that's how they do c-sections, right? But they'd opened your legs and sucked it out of you instead, and you could hardly walk afterward. Ian was there when you came hobbling out, and he picked up your empty shell and carried it home, taking measured steps so as to not jostle you, keeping his face pressed into the top of your head. He didn't kiss you, only whispered about all the ice cream he would buy you, all the sappy movies you would watch together. It wasn't until he placed you gently on your couch that you realized you'd been crying the entire time.
He'd stayed at your house for a few days after that, glaring viciously at your father whenever they were in the same room, jutting his chin out and clenching his fists. Iggy and Colin marveled at his nerve, couldn't figure out why he wasn't afraid, why Dad never hit him for his defiance, but all you could do was imagine him with wings on his back and fire in his eyes.
He brought you to the Gallagher house after Fiona called to complain about never seeing him, telling you to stay for as long as you need, Mandy, despite her protests. You were there for two weeks, sleeping with your head on his chest, letting his heartbeat lull you to sleep. He would bring you treats the next day if you'd had a nightmare the night before, would tell Lip to fuck off if he hit on you, would smack the back of Carl's head for asking invasive questions.
You don't fathom loving another person as much as you love him until the first time Karen cries in front of you. You kissed the warm skin over her heart, where the wound was worst, watched the trust solidify in her eyes as you skimmed your fingers lightly over her tattoo, listened to her breath hitch before you leaned in to press your lips together softly, so softly.
You're glad Karen gets to have Ian, too, for those times when your kisses aren't enough.
***
"This was the third time," you say softly.
She takes a long drag of her cigarette, furrowing her brows in confusion. "What?"
"Usually after the third time, we need to figure it out or end it." You've had this conversation with guys before, but this time the words sound hollow to your ears. Are you nervous?
"Figure it out," she drawls with a sly smile.
You nod, mouth dry.
She inhales deeply and stubs out her cigarette, pushing the sheets back to slink over to the end of the bed where you've started to get dressed and breathe the smoke into your mouth. Her hand moves to tangle in your hair, and you grab her wrist. "I'm serious, Karen. We figure it out, or we stop."
She rolls her eyes, starts kissing down your neck. "Why does anything have to change?" Nibbles on your collarbone. "I mean," she grazes the tip of her finger over your underwear in agonizingly slow circles. "we're both having fun, right? Why ruin it?"
You can't think through the shivers running down your spine. She presses her finger against you harder, and your mouth goes dry. "Fuck," you breathe.
"With pleasure," she quips, moving to kiss down your body like she had for hours earlier. There's something about her kisses, something soft and reverent that makes you forget about the jagged lines carved into your skin and feel something else, something smoother.
She whispers beautiful into a mark she's sucked onto your thigh, just barely skims her lips against your skin as she makes her way to where you're warm and throbbing and you realize that yes. That's what it is. You don't think she meant for you to hear, but you take the word home with you anyway.
Days later, each of your attempts to continue the conversation are swiftly derailed. You hate that you've become so easily distracted, hate that you're letting her play you like this, but she'll smile at you and twirl a lock of your hair on her finger and watch where it curls against your shoulder, tizzle her nails lightly against the bare skin above the waistband of your jeans, curl her warm hand around your upper thigh.
No one's ever kissed you the way she does.
***
She won't say you're together.
You go to parties together, you and Ian and Karen and Mickey, even though most of the time you and Ian have to drag Karen and Mickey off the couch and get them dressed yourselves. They never want to go anywhere, and when you get there Mickey stays in the corner, watching everyone; all the guys eyeing Karen up, all the girls flirting with Ian, all the guys dancing on you.
Some of them get too handsy, and you push them away, say you're with someone and look at her from across the room. They scoff and move in for more, music drowning out their low chuckles, but Ian is always there, eyes flashing, fists clenched. Mickey is tensed in his corner, waiting.
Karen watches too, grinding her teeth in consternation, nostrils flaring.
After the fourth douchebag, Ian stays to dance with you, and you can see Mickey relax back into his beer out the corner of your eye. Karen sidles up to join you, grabbing your wrist and keeping you close to her while you gyrate with Ian, laughing at each other.
She doesn't have to say that you're together.
***
You text Mickey not to go home when he and Ian get off work, tell them to come to Karen's house. His face is solemn when they get there, like he already knows what you're going to say.
"Uncle Ronnie went to pick Dad up," you say hoarsely. You hadn't realized how thick this bubble was until it burst all over you.
***
Mickey finds out accidentally, the confusion on his face heartbreaking as he stands in your doorway and watches you cry. His head keeps swiveling back and forth between you on your bed and Dad's retreating back, like his brain is trying to find something else, anything else, anything but what's already been confirmed by the churning in his gut.
He looks like a deer in headlights as he tiptoes in, and you can tell he's not sure what he wants to do more, comfort you or confront Dad. You want him to leave, but you don't want to be alone, not with his searching gaze. You can't handle your eyes, Mama's eyes, looking at you from his face. "Call Ian?" you choke out. He nods, gets his phone and sits on your bed with you while you wait for Ian to get to your window.
Ian's face is solemn, and Mickey stiffens. They have a silent conversation as he climbs in; You knew? I'm sorry. Why didn't you tell me? I couldn't. Mickey shakes his head, but doesn't leave the room--he stands by the door, alternating between watching you and Ian and watching for your father.
Karen knows something's wrong when you all meet up. Ian and Mickey aren't talking to each other, and you're closed off. It doesn't occur to you until later how worried she must have been, because she's the one to initiate conversation. "What happened?"
She asks softly, not wryly like you'd expected, and the tenderness of her hand on your arm brings tears to your eyes. Or maybe she touched you because you're crying. You can't remember which came first.
You fall in love with her more when she doesn't say anything. No kind words offered, no cliches uttered, and honestly, you just. You love her.
"Can I stay here?" you whisper.
She furrows her brows and pulls back to look at you, because you've never had to ask before, always just wound up in her bed at night and eating breakfast with her mother in the morning.
"Of course." She lays down gingerly beside you, like she's not sure you want her to touch you, but you grab her hand and she squeezes back tightly, so tightly.
***
Dad's in prison and Mickey's smug. He won't tell you what happened, but you remember seeing him and Ian hanging out with Lip a lot more than they usually would.
You don't think the two of you have held onto each other for so long since Mama's funeral. You've missed it.
***
She talks about her dad sometimes. On her birthday, when her mom gets that faraway look in her eye and says "Oh, I just wish Eddie," before she gulps and trails off to cut the cake, not seeing the uneasy looks you all exchange at the table.
"They always wound up fighting," she says quietly, playing with your fingers. You've just given her your present--a mixtape that Ian and Mickey helped you make, playing softly in the background now--and eaten some whipped cream out of her, so she's loose and pliant, warm and content. "Mom couldn't leave the house to do all the things I wanted, so he'd have to take me. He started to resent it after a while."
You're quiet for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. "What kinds of things would you do?"
She shrugs, keeping her voice deceptively even. "That first year my mom got sick--I think I was seven--he'd have to take me for picnics in the park. It was nice, at first, getting to spend that time with him." She pauses, taking a deep breath. "He used to look at me like I was the only thing that mattered in the whole world."
Her breath starts to shake now, and you roll on top of her, kiss the tears away. "Shh, кохання." Mama used to call you that, whenever you cried; she'd stroke your hair and nuzzle into your face, kiss your forehead and linger. "Shh."
You want to tell her that when you look at her all you see is your whole world, that she matters more than anyone, that's she's so fucking important, but you can't find the words. Not in English, at least; all you can remember is Mama saying it as she tucked each of you in, smoothing out your blankets and trying not to wince at Dad's drunken yelling. "Ти моє повітря."
You settle for kissing her scars softly, so softly.