Shit, I’m back to that stupid metaphor again!
The point is, I’m nervous and I can’t even think. Suddenly, my brain feels as clumsy as my words always have. And that never happens!
Keegan, who has been watching me with that intense gaze of his the whole time he’s been walking from his spot at the table toward me, finally reaches me. Something in his gaze tells me he’s going to pull me into his arms and kiss me.
Which is exactly what I want, right? Or should I, I dunno, talk before I’m enveloped by the inevitable haze that comes with Keegan’s kisses?
I hold up my hands to keep him at arm's length. I can’t think when he’s touching me, much less say what I need to say.
Maybe I should take his willingness to kiss me in public as a good sign, but I can’t afford the confusion that will inevitably follow.
After all, the last time he kissed me in front of someone else, it was because he was trying to ward off the advances of his predatory neighbor, Selah. What if this is the same kind of thing?
And if it is, that’s exactly the kind of thing a friend with benefits would do to help a friend out, right? I can’t let him kiss me again until I know if he forgives me.
Thankfully, he doesn’t seem offended by my dodge. Or maybe I’m delusional and he wasn’t even going to kiss me.
“Hey, Glasses. Whatcha doin’ here?” He takes my hand in his and links our fingers.
“I think we should talk,” I blurt. And then keep blurting in a rush, because I feel like I need to get out my thoughts first, or I won’t have the courage to do it at all. And also, word vomit is super attractive, right?
I am vaguely aware of Loretta greeting Reb and coaxing her into an empty chair, and of the much older man sitting down at the far end of the table. He is somehow smaller and more fragile than I expected him to be.
He’s not the intimidating mountain of a man I’ve imagined in my mind, but I still don’t want to bare my soul in his earshot. So I step closer to Keegan and say softly, “I know this morning I was the one who rushed off to work and didn’t want to talk yet, but I was an idiot. You’re right. I was just avoiding everything, and now I can’t stop feeling like one of those fish with feet instead of fins and lungs that might or might not work on land.”
I pause here, because now I really do need to breathe. In a non-metaphorical way.
Keegan blinks, his smile a bit bemused, like he’s having trouble following me. “Lungfish?”
“No. The older ones. The first ones.” I wave my free hand like I can somehow erase that part of the conversation. “Never mind. The metaphor is cumbersome. My point is, this morning, I was a chicken.”
“I thought you were a fish.”
“I ... are you making fun of me?”
“Maybe.” He smirks, then seems to make a visible attempt to be serious. “You’re adorable when you’re this flustered.”
“I’m trying to have an honest and serious conversation about our relationship.”
“Right.” He nods, flattening his lips into a scowl that just looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Serious discussion. Continue.”
“Look, I know I should probably be cooler or more chill or whatever, but I need to know if I blew it this morning.”
He shakes his head, taking another step back. “Is that what you think? That I waited for you for a decade and then I’m going to walk away after one fight? One misunderstanding?”
“Look,” I don’t answer him, because I’m a little afraid at this point that he’s going to escort me out and dump me on the sidewalk. “I know I’m making a mess of this. Just hear me out, okay?”
“Okay.”
I look over his shoulder at the family members who are all watching this. Should I try to get him alone first? Part of me is terrified of ripping off the bandaid in front of his family. The voice inside me is begging to have this conversation in private, so that if it goes south, I will be less-mortified. It’s like time slows down as my gaze darts between Keegan’s deep sea eyes, which are somehow warm despite the cool blue of them.
Go inside! Take him somewhere private!
I recognize that voice. It’s the little girl inside—the eight-year-old who begged her dad to come to her dance recital, and who believed him when he said he would. Who cried herself to sleep that night after he never showed up. It’s me in a dress while my mom’s then-boyfriend pinned on a corsage for my daddy-daughter dance in eighth grade because my dad stood me up—again. It’s my voice at college graduation when I elected not to walk because I knew no one would be there.
But the other part of me, the older-than-a-lungfish part that’s gaining her voice, sounds older. Calmer. She’s not afraid.
He said he wasn’t leaving, Meg. He never has.That part of me urges me to believe him—to trust that he’s not going to embarrass me. To trust that I’m safe with him. That I can say what I need to say right here.
