A giggle bubbles up and before I can stop it. Once it comes, I can’t seem to stop it or control it. It’s just so dang funny how bad he is at this.
“Damn, Millie. You don’t have to rub it in.” His tone is teasing.
Now I’m the one apologizing. “I’m sorry! I don’t mean it like that. You aren’t that bad.”
He sighs, like he appreciates the small white lie. “Oh, no. I’m fucking terrible.” Once he finally admits it, the tension he’s been holding in his shoulders finally releases, and then his whole body sags in relief.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever been worse at something. Maybe that time my mom wanted me to learn how to crochet. But that was more self-sabotage than lack of skill.”
I throw my head back, my laughter bubbling up from the depths of my soul.Did he just say crochet?I can just picture it now, the big, surly hockey player crocheting a blanket or a flower.Ooh, maybe it was a hat! Or a scarf.I let my imagination run wild, picturing him with his needle and thread making all kinds of little creations.
Suddenly he pulls me into his chest, his warmth coating every inch of my body with his proximity. He leans down and whispers into my ear, “Want to know what I made?”
We both shuffle our feet back and forth in a dance move made more for slow dancing than the fast-paced and hypnotic salsa dance.
“Very much,” I whisper back, leaning into his touch and soaking up all that delicious warmth. In moments like this, it’s hard to remember all the reasons why we should just be friends. I want so badly to close the last few inches between us and place my lips gently on his. I want to feel his tongue move against mine. My core clenches at the very thought.
And for a split second, I know that he’s thinking the exact same thing as me. I watch as his tongue darts out and glides across his top lip. I see the subtle tilt of his head, angled towards me.
Just as we both inch forward, a loud clap interrupts our little bubble we’ve created for ourselves. I blink and the spell is broken. It’s not until I look around that I realize we’re standing in the middle of the room by ourselves, our fronts plastered to each other in what can only be described as intimate, and everyone else is standing off to the sides of the room.
It isn’t until the instructor clears her throat that we finally break apart, but he doesn’t completely let go. He clasps my hand as he leads us over to where we were standing when class began. He threads his fingers through mine, leaning down to whisper, “Mittens for my cat.”
I can’t help the smile that covers my face.Mittens for his cat, I repeat in my head, picturing it right along with my smile.
It isn’t until hours later when I’m tucked safely in my bed, after Rowan hugged me goodbye and promised to call tomorrow, that I think about just how full of surprises Rowan Pierce is and just how much I like being surprised.
“Dr. Richards’s office called this morning. They have an opening at ten. I told them we would take it.”
I’m mid-bite, the scrambled eggs I made this morning dangling precariously from my fork. “Oh!”
Mom stops midway to the sink and turns around with her dirty plate still in her hand. “You still want to go, right?”
I hesitate, but only for a moment. Last night flashes through my mind. There were no weird tingles going up my spine, save for the ones Rowan gave me, no scary whispers of my name, and certainly no flashbacks that seem real but aren’t my memories.
But I know last night was only a brief reprieve from whatever the hell is going on with me. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I guess I was just surprised about how quickly they could see me.”
Mom’s face smooths out, the wrinkles around her eyes from worry settling. “They said something about a cancellation.”
I try to pretend like I’m not suddenly consumed with worry and anxiety. How do I explain what I’ve been feeling, hearing? I’m going to sound like a complete crazy person; just the thought has my blood pressure rising.
I reach for my pulse point, and as soon as my fingers glide over the sensitive skin, I close my eyes and start counting.
“Baby, what’s wrong?”
My eyes open, and my mother is right in front of me, those worry lines back with a vengeance around her eyes.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. I just got anxious, is all.” I plaster on a small smile, “You know how nervous I get sometimes in doctor’s offices.” I play it off like it’s just run-of-the-mill anxiety that Ihave from years of doctor’s visits, that’s turned into PTSD of sorts, but deep down I know it’s more than that.
I have to give a voice to the thoughts and feelings that don’t feel like they belong to me.
What was I thinking?
“I hear you’ve been experiencing some symptoms that you’re concerned about?” Dr. Richards takes off his readers and places them down on the papers sitting on his desk. He steeples his fingers and places them just below his chin.
I gulp. Even though I thought about how to answer this question all the way here, I still haven’t come up with a way to not sound crazy.
Mom squeezes my hand reassuringly, waiting patiently for me to answer. When I don’t say anything, she gives me an encouraging smile and says, “Tell him how you’ve been feeling, Millie.”
