Christina (Daughters #1) Read Online Free Page A

how upset I get. I talk to everyone, all the time, and sometimes I prefer being with Max because I don’t have to talk or be happy, or really be anything. I can just be Christina in whatever form or mood I feel like at that moment. And stranger still, Max usually senses whatever mood I am in.
    I step back and throw the wet towels in the trash before ripping off some more. This time, I drop to sit back on my heels. No way am I letting my knees touch the dirty floor in the bathroom, but I lean forward to grab his hand and bring the wet, cool towel over his bleeding knuckles. He jerks back at first. I tug harder. I lift my face to his and glare at him. He hates to be touched. Anywhere. Yet he willingly tolerates guys who are much older and bigger than him to slam their fists and feet into his vital body parts. Stupid thing to do. Stupider still, that he is afraid of my hands being on him. I can count on one hand how many times during the five years we’ve been best friends that I’ve actually touched him.
    “You’re bleeding. Let me.” I hold his stare. He is stiff now. His back is straight and his jaw clenched. I tug his hand back towards me and touch it with the wet towel. I don’t mean to, but the sight of his bloodied knuckles causes tears to come to my eyes. I sniff and try to hold them in. It is just so wrong. He does this to himself, and yet he won’t even let me hug him. I am not able to hold his hand or…
    No. I spent too much of my adolescence wishing things about Max that could never be. Things he doesn’t feel for me. Things that could include touching.
    “Why are you crying?” His tone is soft, and his eyes are genuinely confused. He lifts a finger as if he’s about to trace the tears or wipe them, but he hesitates, as always, and drops his hand, as always. I lower my gaze as his usual rejection stings just as much as the first time.
    I shake my head. “Why do you do this? Why do you bloody yourself like this?”
    He shrugs. “I didn’t know you’d be there.”
    “That doesn’t change what you did! Or what you do. I thought… I thought you didn’t do this anymore.”
    “I try to make sure it doesn’t get back to you guys.”
    “So you still do it? Don’t you dare lie to me. This wasn’t just a fluke, was it?”
    He drops his gaze and tugs his hand from mine to wrap his other hand around the wad of paper towels. I stare at his entwined hands and feel the loss from my own. He still, after all these years, and all our times together, hates my touch. “No. Not a fluke.”
    I drop my hands to my lap. “I hate you doing this. Why? I just don’t understand why.”
    “I like the power,” he mutters.
    “There’s no power in pain. Just stupidity,” I snap as I rise up to my feet. His gaze follows me. I can feel his burning, black eyes digging into my skin. He can handle any insult in the world, but he hates it when I call him stupid.
    For years after coming to live here, Max stuttered and struggled to even make a single, normal sentence. He underwent intense speech and occupational therapy. He’d come so far, but still rarely spoke to anyone outside of our family. He mostly only talked to me. But I didn’t totally know him or understand him either. Even after all these years, and all the days I invested in trying to simply talk to Max. I’ve tried so hard to get to know Max, and still I realize that I don’t know him.
    But sometimes, his actions are just so damn pointless.
    I feel the barest touch on my knuckle. I glance down as if the appendage didn’t belong to me. There is Max’s index fingertip on my knuckle. I stare in wonder at the unusual sight of his dark skin against my pale skin. I want to clasp his hand in mine. I want to lean on my knees and wrap my arms around him and press my head against his chest and have him reassure me. Because when he does those things, that crazy fighting, it really scares me. I worry about what could and might still happen to him if he continues