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He squeezed her hand, then released a little, moving his fingertips slowly over hers, focusing on the small movement. He loved the feel of the smooth pads of her fingertips against his. He glanced over at her, her eyes hooded in the shadows. Everything looked gray, like his world had turned suddenly to black and white.
“Were you always scared of storms?” Nate asked.
“Kind of. My grandma was terrified of them. I think her house caught on fire when she was little from lightning. Twice, she said. I’m not sure I believe that. Seems pretty unlucky. Anyway, she babysat me and my sister a lot as kids. Whenever there was rain, she’d make us hide in a closet. It just stuck with me. Not wanting to hide in a closet. But her fear and the sense of waiting for something awful to happen.”
Her fingers moved against his now, tracing over his palms. “That’s…wow. That’s kind of awful.”
“It’s not a big deal. I mean, I don’t freak out with every single storm. I just get nervous. Hurricanes are worse since they’re bigger and have a bunch of different things that can happen. It’s that unknown waiting.”
Nate was distracted from her words by the movement of her fingers. She flipped over his hand, brushing her fingertips over the backs of his hands now. He stilled, afraid that by moving or responding in some way, he would break the spell. The touch was intimate. It felt like an invitation of some kind.
He met her eyes in the dark, again wondering what expression was in there. He wished for a little of the moonlight they’d had earlier in the evening before the clouds rolled in. He’d give anything to have a sense of what she wanted from him. His eyes dropped to her lips. He wondered if he could see well-enough in the dark to notice. Probably not. He couldn’t tell what she was focused on either.
As he watched her lips, one of her hands suddenly reached over and brushed his beard, along his jaw. His whole body jolted from her soft touch.
“When did you grow the beard?” she asked, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
“Two years ago,” he said. “Do you…not like it?” He would shave it tomorrow if she said no, though he loved the way it felt when she touched it.
“It suits you,” she said. “This new you. Older and different.”
“Am I so different now?” he asked.
Her fingers continued to move over his beard. Nate resisted the urge to capture her hand and kiss her fingers again. They moved to his chin, just below his lips. She was still so close that he could feel her breath. If he leaned over just a few inches, he could kiss her. Just the thought sent his heart spinning. So close…
“Maybe,” she said. “I haven’t decided. Sometimes I feel like I know you really well…and then not at all.”
Nate heard the pain in her voice and hated that he had ever caused her any. He understood that she was gifting him another easy opportunity to explain why he stood her up. The moment hung in the air, her expectations hanging in the air, weighty and thick. Nate swallowed. He traced over words, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth.
It would be so much easier here in the darkness. He knew that she would have accepted any answer. She wanted to forgive him and move on. He sensed that she needed a way to reconcile who she thought he was with what he did.
Just say the words.
I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
I had a panic attack.
I’m fine now, don’t worry.
Nate couldn’t start. Though he was well-versed in mindset tricks to manage his anxiety, he couldn’t seem to get his mind to overwrite the irrational fear he had of saying the words out loud. Yes, they gave an excuse that she would understand. But would they also change how she saw him?
He pressed his lips together. Colby sighed and pulled her hands away from him. The expectation in the air shifted into an awkwardness that was heavier. He could imagine the disappointment in her eyes, but it was too dark. Then she turned away.
He stood, shaking off the blanket. “I’m just going to get up and check to see if I can see where the tree fell.”
“Okay.” Colby said, not turning.
He had messed up. Again. Nate worked on his breathing as he walked toward the small window in the front. This was one of the things that his therapist had told him: sometimes the strongest anxiety people suffer from is the anxiety about having anxiety. He understood this well, fearing another attack in the early days, right when he’d gotten home and started cognitive therapy. Now his fears about anxiety centered less around suffering from attacks and more around the fact that it was a secret that maybe he kept too long. The years of not speaking about it made it even harder to let it see the light of day.
Outside, the tops of the trees whipped around impossibly, like they were tiny and fragile, not huge live oaks with trunks you couldn’t wrap your arms around. It was hard to look away. The water in the street moved like a river toward the drains, limbs and all kinds of things he couldn’t identify moving with them. He thought he saw the wriggling body of a snake cutting through the water, but it was so dark he couldn’t tell. It hadn’t risen much, which was good. They would probably be stuck here unless they wanted to wade out. At least for another day or two.
Before going back to Colby, he splashed water over his cheeks, then dried his face on a hand towel. His phone buzzed to life in the pocket of his pajamas.
Todd:How much do you love me?
Nate:Are you dying? Do you need me to profess my brotherly love for you?
Todd:Not at the moment. Seriously, though. How much?
