I nod, wishing she hadn’t added that last part. It’s like saying sorry, not sorry. The worst part is that Brinley thinks it’s weak to need or want someone.
I want to lecture her on relationships and love and what it means to have a person there to see you through. I’m no therapist. Heck, I haven’t had the ultimate success I’m looking for in this area, but Ihavewitnessed healthy, long-lasting relationships with my parents and grandparents. I know what it’s like to benefit from that kind of connection as a child, and I plan to, God willing, give that to my own kids one day.
“It’s okay,” I say. “And you’re right. You don’thaveto relate to the character, but itdoeshelp.” When I feel myself going right back to the conversation that sparked the argument, I take a different approach. They say asking questions is a good way to help people discover the issues they haven’t unpacked themselves. I just have to think of the right question to ask.
Brinley straightens her legs until her toes nearly touch my leg. It reminds me of the way I used to rub her feet on the nights we watched movies together. It feels too soon to initiate such an intimate act, but do we really have time to build up to that level? We’re here only six days. One of those days is already gone and the other is halfway through.
It’s enough for me to reach out and cradle Brinley’s foot in one palm. The touch of her skin transcends me. It sends an inner warmth through every limb. All I can think is that I want more.
I move my gaze from the delicate slope of her foot, along the rest of her figure, and up to her face. I try to read her eyes, a blend of blue and gray in the outdoor light, as she watches me. Guarded, tentative, unsure.
“Is this okay?” I say, remembering the way she liked me to pinch her outer heel between my finger and thumb.
She holds my gaze while answering. “Sure, thanks.”
I nod back, then focus on the act of doing this one thing for her. Recalling the time I spent hoping to ease the aches she’d get from being on her feet all day. I like doing things for her. I’m glad I didn’t bust her with the cat mishap. I mean, I like having a good laugh with Brinley, but I’d never want it to be at her expense, especially if it means it’d be broadcasted across the globe.
I smooth my thumb along the delicate slope of her foot, soaking up the nostalgia it brings.
“My sister got married recently,” I tell her, “and after the wedding, her feet were killing her since she’d been standing in heels all day. So on their honeymoon, she asked her new husband to rub her feet, and he refused. She learned on that very day that he was grossed out by feet. Not hers in particular, but feet in general, meaning there would be no foot massages in her future.”
“Poor girl,” Brinley says.
I nod. “Yep.”
“Where’d they go for their honeymoon?” Brinley asks next.
“Maui,” I say. “Guess that’s kinda typical, huh?”
She tips her head. “Yes, but it’d still be nice.”
“Where would you want to go?” I ask. “If you could choose anywhere in the world?” The truth is, with me, she probably could.
Brinley doesn’t miss a beat. “Italy.”
An ache seeps through me as I recall the trip we had planned there. The one we had to cancel because the shooting time forBuried Treasurewent long, so I was stuck filming an extra five weeks.Goodbye, trip to Italy.I know it was beyond my control, but I still feel guilty about it.
She turns the question on me. “What about you?”
“Same,” I assure. “Remember theItaly TripWish Listwe made?” I ask, though I’m guessing it’s still a sore spot for her too.
“Oh, yeah,” she says with a nod. “I can’t believe how long we held onto that thing. It’d go from your place to mine, then wind up in one of our cars for weeks.”
I chuckle. “We used every shade of pencil and every color of pen known to man on that list. Including,” I add, lifting a finger, “the pizza and gelato workshop you added in deep red lipliner.”
We laugh. “Hey, I was watching a travel blogger while doing my makeup one day,” she says.
“You also added some grapes and a wine glass to our Tuscany day trip with that lip liner,” I recall.
“It looked pretty in that bold red,” she says. “And I loved how it felt—using lip liner on paper like that—very satisfying. It was like writing with crayons again or something. Which, if I recall correctly, you used toward the bottom of the list…”
“I almost forgot,” I say. “Yeah, I borrowed that from a kid in the booth next to me at the Olive Garden. He was coloring his menu.”
“So what on our list was inspired by a trip to the Olive Garden?” she asks.
I nod. “Fair question. The waiter told me there was this pasta and tiramisu workshop we might enjoy.”
“Oh, that’s right. Good call.”
