That's it?
Thatis what all the fuss is about? Holding hands?
My impulse is to snort at her, but one look at her face tells me that for her this is no laughing matter. She's gnawing on the corner of her lower lip and glancing at me sideways, assessing my reaction, waiting for it, nervous for it.
I honestly assess myself—it's an interesting idea. And that's when it occurs to me: I've never in my life just…held someone's hand. Touch has always come with a purpose. Never just because. Never just for comfort or pleasure. I don't mean ill intent or always out of manipulation, but…for a reason. To accomplish something, to communicate something.
This woman, though. She draws things from me. Elicits reactions I didn't know I possessed, elicits feelings I didn't know I was capable of. I say things I shouldn't, find myself feeling things I didn't think I could feel.
All sorts of weird feelings keep cropping up in the atrophied remains of my sin-blackened soul—nascent seedlingsof hope, tiny green shoots of tenderness, fragile sprouts of protectiveness.
All of them regarding her.
There's tension in her brow, written in the furrows and carved in the lines. Worry eats her.
"This means something to you," I murmur. "The hand holding."
She nods, but otherwise doesn't reply.
"Why?"
"I answered your question. It's my turn again."
We're finally crossing the bridge—albeit in fits and starts, like glugging molasses. "Alright," I say. "What's your question?"
"Why did you kiss me?" She looks at me, her expression too complicated to read. "In the alley, after you plowed into me and then used me as a human shield."
Irritation rifles through me. "I did not use you as a human shield, Brys."
"Close enough, and you know what I mean." She holds my gaze, hers unwavering and clear—but full of emotions in a chaos of conflict. "Why did you kiss me?"
There is no option but the truth. "I wish I knew," I speak over her protest. "It's the truth. I didn't plan it, didn't intend it. I just…you were—" my utter inability to articulate any manner of logical explanation irks me to the point that I bite down on my stammering, my teeth clicking together audibly.
"I was what, Jakob? You're an educated, articulate man. Surely you can explain yourself."
"You kissed me back," I point out. "Thoroughly."
She acts offended. "I did not. And that wasnota thorough kiss. Wasn't even a top ten."
My lips curve into a facsimile of a grin. "Is that so?" My voice is a predatory purr. "Noted."
"That wasn't a challenge!" she protests. “You don't have to prove me wrong."
"I had to," I say after a moment; it's the god's honest truth, too. "I had to kiss you. I didn't have a choice."
"I don't know what that means," she says.
I frown at her. "You've never felt that way?"
"I have never felt the urge to shove my tongue down a stranger's throat, no."
"I don't believe you," I say. "You have. You may not have ever acted on it, but you've felt it."
We're stopped again, three-quarters of the way across the bridge; I feel antsy, feel the unsettling prickle of being watched, even though I know we've lost our pursuers for the moment.
She's looking at me, staring at me hard, her unique, intense eyes piercing mine. "Absolutely not."
With traffic halted, I put the car in park and turn to face her. The lie is written all over her face. "You're a bad liar, Brys."
