James sits back on his hands and eyes the door. “We feeling heavy today?”
We.I bite my lips together and nod.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Do I?No. I don’t want to let the words out. I’ve gained so much confidence lately, and I hate how this feels like a step back. When I packed these tote bags full, ready to chop, slice, and season my way through the night, I was sure I would breeze right into the kitchen and get to work. I was excited to cook in there.
But then—the door.
My confidence dried up on the spot.
So I shake my head no and we sit in silence for a minute before I ask him, “Do you think I’m just being dramatic?”
It’s what I’ve been called plenty of times before.
“You’re asking if I think you’re being dramatic for having a physical response to a traumatic incident in your life?” His brown eyes slide to me.
“Well, when you put it like that . . .”
He presses in a little more against me. “No, Madison. I don’t. I think the fact that you’re still sitting here, working up the nerve to go in, proves how strong and determined you are.”
There he goes again. . . .
“Hey. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you from the beginning about . . . this.” I gesture to the vicinity of my head. “I should have been honest with you from the start about the panic attacks.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“But we weren’t really friends back then.”
“Sure. But I wanted to be.” When he can tell this announcement has made me stop breathing, his gaze finds mine again. “I just never knew how to get us there. You gave me the perfect window when you called that night.”
I’m speechless even though a thousand thoughts are soaring around my mind. He wanted to be friends. All along.Did he ever want to be more than friends?
That kiss hums in the back of my mind. The way he held me so delicately.
Because I don’t know how to respond to that without being a little too honest about rising feelings, we sit in silence for another minute. And then . . .
“Hey.” James bumps my shoulder with his. “Have I ever told you I’m a terrible cook? I try but it always comes out disgusting or I slice my finger and gush blood. It’s awful.”
“Sounds bad. But I’m not surprised seeing as you’ve been living off of canned beef stew.”
“Maybe we can fix that. Maybe . . . you could teach me how to make something tonight?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Teach you to cook?”
“Yeah. We’ll go in there together, unload all this stuff, and then, whatever you were planning to make, walk me through it step-by-step.” He pins me with a look, then slowly reaches over and locks our fingers together. “Let me go in with you.” And then he amends. “I want to go in with you.”
I breathe in and out. In and out.
“Okay.” I stand from the floor, readying myself to pick up a tote bag, when James’s hand catches mine again.
“Before we go in, though, give me a few minutes. I smell like shit from the farm, so I’m going to go wash up first. I’ll come get you at the cottage when I’m back.”
Wash up,my ass! I mean, he did wash up because he smells incredible, but he was doing much more than that.
Emotion stings my eyes as I take in the softly glowing kitchen. The harsh fluorescent lights are off—unnecessary, since James has filled the room with the gentle warmth of every lamp he owns, lighting the space just for me.
He studies me as I walk inside. And when I don’t say anything, he rubs the back of his neck and asks, “Was this dumb? I thought it might help yourreintegration.I remembered you saying the lights were sometimes triggering for you. But . . . if it doesn’t help, we could always just go back to my house and cook. Or—god, Maddie . . . say something. Are those good tears or bad tears?”
