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Especially because, after a childhood spent cloistered up in our house or in the university campus library or my parents’ offices, I don’t always know what to say or how to interact normally when I’m around people. The whole tongue-tangle thing.
It’s a challenge.
But I’m tired of shyness being my excuse. Eli asks me questions even though we barely know each other. I can do the same for him.
What to ask?
Now that I’m trying to drum up my courage, all rational thought has left my brain. My fingertips tingle, and my pulse is racing. I’m suddenly reminded of the letter in my bra when I shift and it crinkles.
Thankfully, Eli doesn’t hear it. His shoulders are slumped again, and there’s a tiny crease between his brows as one of his big hands slowly strokes Doris’s back. I can still read the sadness in the uncharacteristic stillness of a man who usually possesses border-collie-energy mixed with golden-retriever-happiness.
I think of Beth’s challenge to talk to him about something besides dogs, and I have a little argument with myself.
Talk to him!
No, thanks.
Just ask if he’s okay.
He’s fine.
He’s not fine! Look at him!
Yes, heisfine. Fiiiine.
Not THAT kind of fine.
Eli sighs, as if to prove the mouthy part of my subconscious correct. He might be fine-looking. But he is not fine inside.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I ask, “Is everything okay? You seem a little down today.”
My voice is hardly more than a whisper, but Eli’s head snaps up like I shouted. I grit my teeth and force myself to hold his gaze. No sense being a coward now.
He offers up a lopsided smile, but his eyes are still sad. “That obvious, huh?”
I offer him a shaky smile. Shaky because adrenaline is surging through me. Sad what a tiny bit of bravery can take out of me.
“You’re flying at half-mast,” I tell him, then hope it wasn’t a terrible thing to say.
But Eli chuckles, looking somehow pleased. Maybe that I’m talking to him like this? Hopefully he hasn’t noticed the lopsided way our conversations have always gone. But how could he not have? He’s always the one talking, and I’m always the one answering.
I feel anxiety trying to take me down in a death spiral, and I focus for a moment on slowing my thoughts, slowing my heartbeat, slowing my self-judgment. It works. Slightly.
“I’ve been better.” Eli drops his gaze and his smile, smoothing his hands over Doris again and again.
It takes a few long moments for me to land on an appropriate follow-up question. At least, Ihopeit’s appropriate.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Eli’s reaction to my question this time is slower but somehow almost as dramatic. No—moredramatic. It’s as though my offer struck him like a stone between the eyes, stunning him.
His hands stop moving, resting lightly on Doris’s dark shaved fur. His shoulders stiffen. Almost comically slow, he lifts his head to look at me again. His expression seems dazed, almost bordering on surprise.
He opens and closes his mouth several times, then he tilts his head to the side, as though assessing me.
Is he…?Wait. Is he actually considering taking me up on my offer to help? Is there something I could really do for him?
My body’s response to this wildly exciting yet completely terrifying prospect is to start sweating profusely under myscrubs. Behind my ribs, a rave is going on, with my pounding heart providing the bass.
