“Makes sense.” Walking back toward the doorway leading into my main studio, he asks, “What do you say we move the beds in here tonight?”
Being that I can’t move heavy mattresses on my own, I think it’s a solid plan. In the end, we wind up relocating three beds, a chaise, and a claw-foot bathtub. By the time we’re done, I’m wiped out.
Collapsing onto one of the beds, I declare, “I’m so tired, I could fall asleep right here.”
Thomas laughs before pointing at the window. There are a couple of high school kids standing there with their faces pressed up against the glass. “If you slept here you’d have an audience,” he says.
I sit up and wave at the lookie-loos before telling him, “I bought blackout drapes for the windows. They haven’t come yet.”
“Smart thinking.” Thomas walks over to me and offers his hand. “What do you say I drive you home?”
“How about if we walk?”
He squints his eyes like he’s trying to decide why I don’t jump at the chance of getting back into my dream car. “You don’t trust my driving yet, huh?”
Feigning an expression of shock, I tell him, “What? No. It’s just such a beautiful night, and I love the fresh air.”
Thomas looks out the window and declares, “It’s pouring rain.”
“Refreshing!” I exclaim.
“Finley …”
I decide to tell him the truth. “Driving on a wet night is harder than driving during the day. You might not be ready for it yet.”
“Why is that?”
“All the reflection from the lights on the puddles.” I lead the way into my original shop and grab two umbrellas. Handing one to him, I say, “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Thomas doesn’t give me any more trouble. Instead, he walks outside ahead of me and opens his umbrella –a white golfing number that’s probably five feet across. I sometimes use them on set to reflect light.
He immediately starts to dance around but then a gust of wind hits and nearly lifts him off his feet. He’s practically blown into the middle of the street. Letting out a shout of surprise, Thomas starts to laugh. “Open yours up and join me,” he calls out.
Instead of following orders, I lock the door of my shop before telling him, “Flying home is probably just as dangerous as driving with you.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Now he’s stomping in puddles under a streetlight.
“Your feet are going to get wet, and then you’ll get sick.” I sound like my grandmother.
“If I get sick, I won’t have to go into work.” He starts performing something of a jig.
“If you get sick, you won’t be able to take me out on a date,” I tell him.
That’s all it takes for Thomas to quit fooling around and join me on the sidewalk. “My umbrella’s big enough for both of us,”he says before I can get mine open. “Just squeeze in next to me.” He winks, letting me know he likes having me close. I like it, too.
Even though I’m currently pretty confident being myself, ever since my diagnosis, I’ve struggled with worrying about what other people think of me. My mom always said it was none of my business, but I couldn’t imagine whose business it was more than mine.
She told me that if I go through life caring about the opinions of others, I’ll give them power over me. Then she’d ask if I wanted to give Joelle Stinger power over me. Even though that’s the last thing I wanted, it was hard to stop caring cold turkey.
In retrospect, I’ve probably lost out on some nice friendships because I kept other people at arm’s length. My reasoning being that if they didn’t know I was different, they would never learn the truth and then I wouldn’t have to watch them change toward me.
I suddenly remember how I used to feel when I ran as a kid. Wild, carefree, completely believing that at any moment gravity would cease to exist and I would take flight. I have never felt anything quite that liberating. Then it hits me: that’s exactly how I feel walking down the street with Thomas.
My soul feels like it’s dancing around my body, lighter and freer than it’s been in years. I know to the depths of my being that I cannot let him leave Elk Lake. I don’t know how I’m going to keep him here, but I’m going to have to come up with a foolproof plan.
If I don’t, my heart might never heal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
