After what happened, I waited until I was nearly twenty-six years old to lose my virginity. Seriously. She was a few years older than me. We met at a refrigeration convention. She relentlessly dropped hints about sleeping together throughout the whole weekend, and then finally, at the end of the convention, she was straight up about it. She wanted something with no strings attached. She was busy and had no time for a relationship. I was pretty much terrified during the whole thing. I pretty much laid there like a statue, even though she was incredibly vocal about it being what she wanted. Aboutmebeing what she wanted. Afterward, she kissed me, thanked me for the incredible time, wished me well, and suggested we attend the same conference the next year and see each other again.
It worked for me.
The next time, I wasn’t scared half to death. I wasn’t so stoic. I was actually able to enjoy myself.
The next year, it was better.
And so on, until she drew me out of myself.
Both of us knew it wasn’t love. It wouldn’t ever be love. It wouldn’t ever be a relationship.
She met someone and got married three years ago. I was genuinely happy for her when she brought her husband to the conference. I was happy she was happy. She’d found love unexpectedly, and it was a beautiful thing.
I’ve been okay with being on my own. I didn’t give up hope of ever finding someone because I never had that hope in the first place.
It was enough. For years, it was enough.
Until right now. Until Amalphia’s deep brown eyes and the gentle curl of her lips. Until she listened. Until her compassion.
“Warrick?” she asks softly.
I’m in my head, but that seems to be okay with her. She understands there’s a whole lot of sensory overload going on in places I’ve shut down completely.
“Sorry.” My chest is so beyond tight that my ribs are starting to hurt.
There are different kinds of pain, and I don’t think this is the bad kind. It’s hope. No other emotion could be so beautiful or devastating, but Amalphia isn’t going to dash it. She’s not going to make me believe something and steal it away. I know she’s little more than a stranger. Worse, she’s an employee and my son’s ex-girlfriend. She could crush me now if she wanted to. I’ve given her more than enough ammunition.
“Don’t be sorry.” Her lips curl up at the corners. She barely smiles at all, but it’s enough to knock me back a foot like some crazy forcefield action just blasted out of her, as forceful as anycannon. “I know you’re probably not pro-touch, but it’s…it’s just my opinion…” She chews on her bottom lip, which makes something totally inappropriate come to life inside me. “I think you might need a hug.”
“A h-h-hug?” How can a one-syllable word sound like eighty-six point seven nine syllables in my mouth? Why does it feel like there’s a mouse doing incredibly enthusiastic mouse loops on a mouse wheel in my brain, except the wheel and mouseareboth my brain?
“Yes. A hug. I know touching is a big deal, and I respect that you might not be ready for that, but it’s what my parents did for me when I was hurting. My granny too. Or sometimes we just…we just hugged for no reason at all except that it felt really darn good.”
The mouse wheel brain thing spins harder. Faster. I’ve heard that people have to lubricate those wheels with cooking oil because other oils aren’t safe. My brain could use some lubrication. Maybe then it would stop sending weird thrills followed by a whole lot of anxious anxieties spiraling through me. Through me? It’s probably that I’m just spiraling. Period.
“I hug Booty Sue all the time, not just when she’s got wide eyes and is extra hooey. My mom hugs her crab, and she tries with her fish, though she’s not always successful,” Amalphia continues.
I don’t have to tell her that my life has been one giant black hole when it comes to affection. The story I just told her in the kitchen pretty much fills her in on that without me saying so. Not only is my heart going off in jerky rhythms, but my breathing is just as messy.
“My parents hugged each other. A lot. It’s a great way to communicate to someone that they’re not alone. Some people might scoff and think a hug can’t actually do anything, but I don’t know. Ask a sick child. Ask a crying friend who just needsto know you’re there and you get it, but they don’t want to hear any big, fancy words. There’s a reason the whole shoulder-to-lean-on saying is so overused. It’s a powerful thing, having someone there.”
How is it even a thing right now that Amalphia feels like my safe place? Not my person, but a safe person. The only person in my life who has truly been a human being.
“Oh. Oh…no. Oh my god, Warrick, I’m sorry.” Her hands start flapping like they’ve sprouted wings, are the wings, and want to be the wings. She looks like she’s going to take flight, and two bright pink spots appear on her cheeks.
My mouse-wheel-muddled brain registers the fact that she’s beautiful. I said she was pretty before, but I was wrong. There’s nothing in this world that could make this woman anything less than gorgeous. She’s all heart, and finding a person like that is like having a spaceship drop out of the sky and start belching out alien-sized toads with extra warts, which really only makes them extra cute.
“You don’t have to have the hug,” Amalphia assures me. “I’m sorry.”
Her hands are still flapping.
I have no idea what’s making her so upset until I reach up and brush at the itch on my cheek. Actually, both my cheeks are itching. They’re tight, pinched, crinkly, and crispy, like finding a used tissue in the bottom of your pocket.
Also…wet.
Doubly like the mystery tissue.
Shudder.
