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"Hallie, baby, why do you wear gloves all the time?”
Hallie Creel’s heart leaps into her throat at her boyfriend’s more-than-justified question. It was only a matter of when, not if, really, but they were having the most wonderful of dates together in their meadow, said date absolutely secret and hidden from both sets of immensely disapproving parents. Taking place during the period that the lovesick teens should definitely be in bed, saying their prayers and not causing any unnecessary trouble.
Luckily for Hallie and Patrick, they are equal parts light-footed and incredibly adept at sneaking out, not to mention their respective much-appreciated siblings covering their tracks and pretending as if nothing is amiss.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, darling.” Patrick says, noticing immediately Hallie’s discomfort and pulling her closer towards him, kissing her cheek oh so tenderly and playing with a lock of Hallie’s long blond hair.
She’s really found a Romeo in Patrick Newby; he’s so sweet and loving to her. In a way Hallie had believed for the longest time she’d never be afforded, let alone by someone as lovely as her Pat. He makes her feel desirable, beautiful even. Patrick tells Hallie just how gorgeous she is to him on a daily basis, and he’s so frequent with it she believes he’s telling the truth.
“It’s just—well, you see…” Hallie trails off, her embarrassment getting the better of her as usual. How she despised talking about the reasoning behind her permanent gloves, and no matter how much brutes like Walter Henderson attempt to rip them off forcibly, Hallie will never let her bare hands be seen.
It’s not ladylike, Harriet! How do you expect to win a husband unless you shield him from your sin? Mother crows in her head, displeased as ever and constantly demeaning her oldest daughter for the smallest of flaws and mistakes.
Hallie can’t even legally wed the man she wants to marry, so that takes a little weight off things.
It’s not normal for girls to have hands like mine. What if Patrick is disgusted by them and leaves me?!
“Is it because you want to match your outfits? My sweet doll.” Pat coos, nuzzling into Hallie’s slender neck in such a way that would make Virginia Creel faint from the indecency of it all.
She adores how Patrick never makes fun of the way she dresses. Okay, maybe it is quite immature for a sixteen-year-old to dress the exact same way as her much younger sister (people often marvel that Hallie and Alice would be twins if they both matched each other’s height), but her more doll-like way of dress with its soft fabrics and lack of structure is the only way Hallie Creel feels comfortable in clothes without further irritating her forever unhappy mother.
Hallie is forbidden from wearing makeup, lest she wish to look like a Jezebel, according to Mother. And no, that one time Karen Wheeler did her makeup in homeroom doesn't count!
But Pat never minded; nothing as trivial as a makeup-less face seemed to bother him. Hallie would feel envious about his nonchalance, but she loves her boyfriend too much to care.
He actually likes her for who she is! Creepy Creel, the witch girl with her flat chest, cold skin, and too-lanky limbs. Patrick often said if the world weren’t so cruel to couples like them, he’d be more than proud to openly have a girl like Hallie Creel on his arm.
“Well, yes but also no. It’s complicated.” Hallie mumbles, ashamed by her lack of gumption.
Patrick’s expression scrunches up in understandable confusion at Hallie’s poor explanation. She could see his dimples somehow as a result, and thus Hallie could not help herself from kissing him right on his pretty lips.
You like kissing colored boys, do you, Harriet? Allowing him to poison your virtue with his lust. You wicked girl! A familiar icy tone mentally hisses.
Shut up, Mother! What do you know anyway?
“When you kiss me like that, baby, I’ll give you all the time in the world.” Patrick flirts after reluctantly breaking the kiss, and Hallie subsequently mourns the increased space between them.
Pat’s not like the rest. He’ll actually listen to me; I know he will.
“Just, don’t laugh or scream or run away.” Hallie grits out, her dreaded gloved hands trembling with fear. She can’t believe that Patrick Newby has melted down her walls enough to the point she’s actually going to reveal one of her biggest shames in his presence.
Patrick laughs (not mockingly in the slightest)—it’s a sweet, melodic thing. It reverberates through Hallie’s chest, and she wishes she could record such a sound to play it again and again when she needs it the most.
“I won't—you’re my Hallie girl. I love you, doll. I’m not going to split regardless of what’s under those pretty little gloves of yours.” Patrick proclaims, smooth as butter, once again enchanted by a lock of Hallie’s hair.
He declares his love for her so freely. Other than Alice, no one is so overt regarding their love for little old Hallie Creel. Pat's unabashed affections make her heart feel as if it will take flight right out of her very throat.
"I love you too, Pat, which is why I want to show you.” Her boyfriend is the only one capable of bringing out the best in her, like always.
Patrick’s bronze cheeks turn dark before he gives her the floor. Telling Hallie she’s more than welcome to back out now if she really wants to.
I’ve made it this far; might as well see it through.
He won’t be disgusted. Pat’s not that type of guy.
It takes an age for Hallie to actually be able to physically remove her gloves, pondering for a moment if it’s worth utilizing her magic or just manually taking them off. She removes the non-affected side’s cover easy peasy (Patrick's face once more contorting into confusion), but the other side? Now that’s the true test of wills.
"Patrick, please help me?” She sheepishly requests, pale cheeks turning pink with her squeamishness.
Patrick doesn’t even hesitate before agreeing, commenting on just how lucky these gloves are to be on the hands of his sweet girl.
“There you go, Hallie.” Patrick says, looking down to probably gawk at the horror in front of him.
Hallie’s uncovered hand is a truly nasty, scarred mess. Nothing ladylike or endearing about it. Pat is quiet for what feels like forever, and Hallie’s mounting anxiety, fueled by shadows and unrelenting mothers alike, reaches a predictable breaking point.
“I knew it! You think I’m disgusting, don’t you?” Hallie accuses, far too burned by her past to see the reality of the situation.
Patrick finally snaps from his daze, gazing upwards to Hallie’s now teary mess of a face. Murmuring about how she’s so goddamn cold even with the gloves, before going on to do something that makes Hallie’s head go completely blank with awe.
Her boyfriend kisses her scarred hand. Like it was no different from any other.
"Never, Hallie, you are gorgeous to me, remember? Your hand changes nothing, save for me now wanting to knock out the asshole who dared to hurt my girl in this way.”
Hallie’s tears are incapable of ceasing; he’s so damn good to her, kind and understanding in a manner she feels she can never truly deserve.
“It’s from an accident—I don't remember much.” Hallie mutters softly.
Probably for the best.
“Poor thing.” Patrick responds, kissing her hand again—the scars honestly don’t look so bad when greeted with such gentle ministrations.
Whatever did she do to be so lucky?
“Can I hold your hand, baby? Properly, I mean.”
Hallie frowns at his desire. For some reason, Pat kissing her marred palm is perfectly acceptable, but hand-holding feels strictly forbidden.
“Why? The texture is weird and unpleasant. Can't you just hold my other hand?”
“Because I want to hold this one—it’s my girlfriend’s hand, and I want to treasure every part of her. She deserves it.” Pat’s earnestness wins her over then and there; he would never lie or trick Hallie. Patrick Newby is far too good-hearted to contain any kind of deceit within him.
She’s already sinned far too much tonight. What’s another?
Hallie’s scarred hand is held so tightly by the boy of her dreams, the world does not burn into hellfire, nor does he run away. Pat just smiles, that beautiful pearly grin of his, and tells her that he truly is blessed.
Flowers float all around them at his heavenly praise, and when Patrick leans in to kiss her, Hallie’s hands have found their home in his coiled curls as blood runs from her nose, falling down to greet Pat’s lovely lips—Hallie knows he doesn’t mind in the slightest.