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“My hands hurt. I overbooked myself.”
“Want me to rub them?” he offers.
I hear Willow answer in my head. Be open to affectionate touch.
Just what I need. More voices in my head.
It’s okay. This is Tom. I can do this.
I need to do this.
“That would be great.” It would have sounded convincing if my voice hadn’t broken.
Surprise shoots across his face, quickly replaced with his usual smile. He scoots his chair closer, leaning forward. “Which one do you want me to start with?”
Fear slithers through me, but I squelch it down. “My right one,” I say, holding it out. Tom moves slowly, gently taking it in his bear-paw-sized hands before rubbing the pad at the base of my thumb. It feels so good, I groan.
He releases my hand immediately. “Did I hurt you?”
I shake my head. “It’s a good hurt.” He resumes the firm pressure, his huge fingers working in slow circles.
We sit in silence for a few moments before I hesitantly speak. “I talked to my therapist about how tired I am of being afraid to be touched.”
Tom glances up but keeps massaging. “How’d that go?”
“She suggested I turn to a guy I trust and allow myself to be vulnerable with him. You know, simple touch. Affection.” I swallow hard. “Maybe talk about hard things.”
“Maybe let someone rub your hands?” he asks quietly.
My face grows hot. “When you say it out loud, it sounds really –”
“It sounds brave.”
“Stupid. It sounds really stupid,” I mutter.
“You're taking steps to break free from your fear. They don’t have to be giant steps. Every step, big or small, moves you forward. That’s not stupid. It’s courageous. I’m honored to help.”
I glance up. “Why?”
“Because it means you trust me, and trust isn’t something you bestow easily.”
My eyes soften. “I’ve always known I could trust you, but knowing it and controlling my reflexes are two very different things. She said I need to retrain my brain to remember that touch isn’t always bad. She encouraged me to face my fear of vulnerability with someone I trust. I don’t want to impose, though.”
He laughs. “I can’t imagine massaging your hands becoming an imposition, Charlie.” He squeezes my fingers, one at a time, working the muscles in the pads. “It’s Italian night again tomorrow at Casa di Edwards. The girls are either making lasagna or having me order pizza. They haven’t decided yet.” He shrugs. “But Maya and Skyler said you – and I’m quoting here – ‘totally have to come’.” He grins. “Are you free?”
“For Italian food? Obviously. What can I bring?”
“Just yourself.”
“I’ll bring dessert,” I promise.
Friday evening, I show up at Tom’s with a carrot cake. I knock, but there’s no answer. I hear voices around back, so I let myself in and leave the cake in the kitchen. The stove is cold and empty. Apparently the girls opted for pizza.
“Knock, knock,” I call, opening the back door and stepping onto the porch.
Maya and Skyler scramble to their feet. “Charlie!”
“Crap,” Tom mutters. “We’re not even cooking and I’m running late.”
