This was my favorite ritual and one I always handled alone. While Cat did everything else, the delivery and setup of the art was mine.It was one of the few things I enjoyed about the entire process.
I felt myself falling back asleep as the morning dragged on, but not for long. Bill began pawing me, chattering, ready for his breakfast. Mr. Beans, who stood near the door, soon joined him, singing the song of his people in long, drawn-out yowls.
Persistent, I had to give them that.
Once they were fed, I worked my way through the day, one step at a time. It was better to work in manageable segments. If I thought too far ahead, I’d lose my calm.
The first hurdle was forcing myself to eat a big breakfast. Knowing my gut, eating would become less and less appealing as the day went on. I made my favorite blueberry chia protein pancakes. They were packed with all the goodies necessary to sustain me and stave off low blood sugar until after the show. Any physical reaction would trigger my anxiety, so I was careful to pack a few fruit snacks, just in case. Those I could stomach.
Next came the showering. Then the dressing. Then theexistential dread.
By the time the evening sky appeared, the feeling clawed at my chest. The approaching darkness felt like a countdown, deepening the familiar fear that took root in my abdomen.
Staring out the front window over the back of my couch, I was in pure survival mode. My breathing dragged in a shallow, fluttering rhythm. Cold sweat slicked my palms, and my muscles felt heavy and leaden. My stomach churned with a familiar ache that spread through my torso, making me nauseous.
I’d sunk deep into the cushions, wishing they’d swallow me. Mr. Beans was on the sill in full view of passersby, unafraid of being seen. I wished he could go to the show in my place. He’d fit right in with his brooding air of judgment.
As the sun fell behind the buildings across the street, I caught myself staring at Nash’s front door with laser-like focus. My gaze was centered on the doorknob, the single item grounding me. Bill was sitting beside me on the floor, his head in my lap, snoring.
It was then that Nash’s door opened—my focal point disappearing. It took me a while to process the change, as though dragging myself out of a tar pit. My groggy body woke, then jumped when the door slammed behind a familiar large form.
Bill leapt onto the couch, ready to defend my honor, barking without apparent reason at the window. Mr. Beans sped from the room in a blur of fluff.
“Bill,”I admonished, dropping below the window frame, trying to pull him down with me, but there was no use. Though small, Bill was mighty.
His nose skated across the glass in excitement; his small butsolid little sheepdog body impossible to budge. Barks rang in my ears.
I chanced a glance over the edge of the couch before ducking back. Nash was on his stoop, looking across the street in our direction. Had he seen me?
Dear God, please no.
I rolled off the couch with a thud, crawling away from the window to the back of the room and around the corner.
“Bill, come here!” I snapped. Standing, I took refuge behind a column that divided the front room from the back kitchen. I squinted, straining my eyes to see Nash from this distance.
He was waving at Bill.
Crap—so much for keeping my location a secret.
My fingers dug into the smooth column as I tried to steady myself. My mouth parted as my breathing increased, searching for more air. I dared myself to peek out from behind the column, attempting—with surprising effort—to catch a full glimpse of Nash’s form.
The streetlights had flicked on, casting a dramatic glow over the broad shape of him. A dark trench coat draped over his shoulders, unbuttoned and showing a peek of dark pants and shirt. I wouldn’t know what color, but dark looked good on him.
A quiet buzz seemed to fill the air, drowning out Bill’s barking. The rush of blood to my head was causing my ears to ring and my fingers to tingle. A thrill of warmth spread through me as I recalled the way it felt when we were wrapped around each other in Bill’s leash.
He was heading out of the house,which was clear, but I couldn’t help but wonder where.
I was already dressed head to toe in black for the show, and in this moment it helped hide me against the dark backdrop of my dim kitchen. I had on a long skirt with a high waist and a long-sleeve black shirt with a mock turtleneck. Nothing that drew attention. A black velvet bow secured my hair in a tight ballerina bun.
Nash began crossing the street toward my townhome.
Oh shit. Please no.
I backed away, his figure falling below the frame of the front window, now on my side of the street.
Bill was chattering, looking down, licking the window between yips and wagging his black and white tail with such force, he was slapping himself.
My heart rate soared as I backed deeper into the kitchen, toward the doorbell camera screen. Turning it on, I held my breath, as though worried Nash might hear me over the speaker as I could hear him. He stood at the base of my stoop and to the right, under my front left window.
