Brandon: Are you busy today?
I run through my mental calendar, then re-check the work schedule to confirm I’m definitely off.
Me: No.
Brandon: How good are you at marketing?
Me: I’m okay. I help with the restaurant's socials occasionally.
Brandon: That works for me.
Brandon: Would you mind meeting me at North Autumn Productions today?
Me: Um…
Brandon: Okay…how about lunch?
I tap my phone against my bottom lip as I think of any reason to say no to him. Other than trying to play the piano, I really have nothing keeping me from going. Except fear. I am terrified of opening myself up to anyone, let alone to Brandon. Every fiber of my being is telling me this hascatastrophewritten all over it. But he did something last night that has stuck with me. It’s like he couldn’t care less about our family’s severed connection.
Me: What time?
Brandon: 12? At Brotherly Eats?
Me: Okay. I’ll see you then.
I toss my phone on my bed and stare up at that speck of paint again. Hannah made me start seeing a therapist last year. It was part of our deal when she let me come back to work. And I hate to admit that my sessions have been working, but it was easier for me to officially be diagnosed instead of playing the guessing game. After losing Liam, I didn’t think anything could get worse than a clinical depressiondiagnosis. Because surely, there was no way that label applied to me, but every sign pointed to it.
On the days I don’t see my therapist, which is rare, I practice some grounding techniques:
What do I see? That paint oops on my ceiling and the morning light flooding through my windows.
What do I feel? My bedspread and I scrunch it in my hands.
What do I taste? My awful morning breath.
What can I smell? The lingering scent of the forest-scented candle I lit last night.
What can I hear? The hum of the air turning on, a car door shutting down the street, and sirens whirring in the back.
I typically do my technique when I’m feeling antsy or itchy, and last night with Brandon, along with the new feelings he’s sparked in me, has brought those feelings up. Plus some new feelings I’m not quite ready to acknowledge yet. With a glance at the clock on my nightstand, I decide now is as good a time as any to get my day started.
The soundsand smells of the business district at lunchtime are sensation overload as I walk down the sidewalk toward the restaurant where I’m meeting Brandon. With the summer sun beating down on my arms and legs, I make it my mission to find an umbrella to stand under. Or at least an awning. Because of my love of wearing black clothes year-round, I always forget how incredibly hot I get.
My heart skips a little when I see him leaning against the restaurant, looking around. His head turns when I’m a few steps away and yep, my heart definitely skipped a beat.
“Hi,” he greets as he pushes off the side and closes the last few steps between us.
“Hey.”
I’m not short, per se, as I look up at him. But Brandon has a little more than half a foot on my five feet four inches. His brown hair is perfectly combed back, and those hazel eyes I saw under the lights of the TapHouse are now covered by a pair of black Ray Ban sunglasses. On anyone else, that eyewear would look dated, but on him, he pulls them off. He has that classic boy next door look that’s nowhere close to a frat guy.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, pulling me out of my gawking.
“Starving, actually.”
He moves around me and places a hand on my lower back as he opens the door. “Then come on. This place has the best pizza—wait, you’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
“Nope. Not a vegetarian. I just don’t eat a lot of dairy or gluten, if I can’t help it,” I assure him with a smile, placing my hand on his arm to reassure him when he starts to back away from the restaurant. “Brandon, it’s okay. We can eat here.”
