Is this…desire?
Do I desire this complete stranger?
As quickly as that random thought flashes through my mind, I dismiss it. I have long since accepted that my body does not operate in the usual fashion when it comes to hormones, lust, and desire. I can appreciate an attractive man, such as Wyatt, but I have no urge to see or do more with anyone. As the colloquialism goes, been there tried that. And it was overall, anticlimactic. Pun intended.
Once I’m behind the counter, with some distance between myself and this bizarre sensation, I take a deep calming breath, feeling my lungs expand and retract with the familiar rhythm brought on by years of breath control work. “Are you in town long?” I ask, making polite conversation as any professional business owner would.
It’s perfectly acceptable and normal that my eyes follow him as he walks over and places the two books that I suggested to him onto the counter in front of me. At least, that is what I tell myself.
“A week or so.”
Not long then. That’s good. It’s uncomfortable for me, this feeling I have. I don’t understand — why now, why him? Why is this previously dormant part of my body stirring to life, like a bear coming out of a long hibernation?
When I look up from placing his books in a bag, I blink to make sure I’m not mistaken. Wyatt is staring at me, his eyes seeming to map a pattern across my face. I see his gaze linger on my nose, a strange place for him to focus on, to be certain. The uncomfortable feeling in me deepens. He’s likely noticing all of my freckles. I refuse to waste time and energy on being self-conscious, but I am aware of them, aware that they are one more way in which I am different from the status quo.
I push the bridge of my glasses up my nose. “Will that be all?” Serena is always telling me to not sound so formal, but right now it can’t be helped. I need to put some space between my confusing reaction and the man causing it.
All I get is an enigmatic smile in return, and a rap of his knuckles on the counter before Wyatt turns and saunters toward the door. With one hand on the handle, he pauses, and looks over his shoulder at me.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Paige.”
I wish I could say the same, yet the overwhelming emotion tumbling around inside of me is not pleasure. It’s confusion.
Thankfully, the rest of the day passes uneventfully. I make some more sales and spend some time organizing a signing I have next month with an author from Vancouver. After the store closes for the evening comes my favourite ritual. My Nan is the one who inspired me to open a bookstore, and the start-up money came from the inheritance she left me. She fostered my love of books, and we spent many evenings listening to Joni Mitchell and reading together. Now, that music is my companion each evening, and the small ritual helps me feel connected to the woman who gave me the gift of a love of books.
With the music playing softly through the speakers, I wander the shelves, tidying, restocking, and simply running my hands over the spines of my books as if they were old friends. Which, in a way, they are. Books have long been my safe harbour, my escape, my way to experience the world without ever leaving Vancouver Island. So many of my days and nights were spent alone in hospital beds, hooked up to nebulizers and oxygen machines while asthma wreaked havoc on my lungs, with only my books to keep me company.
As soon as I was old enough to advocate for myself, I requested my parents not stay with me during overnight stays. My mom’s level of anxiety and worry was too high for me to handle, and my father was uncomfortable in any healthcare setting. To tell the truth, I don’t think either of them minded when I first said I didn’t need them to stay, although, for a while, it did make Mom hover all the more closely when I would first return home after a hospital stay.
It’s all I’ve ever known, this life of constantly being on alert for germs and other things that might trigger an episode.
Severe reactive airway disease.
Also known as viral-induced asthma, with the added personal triggers of allergies to cigarette smoke and some artificial perfumes.
After so many years with this disease, I have established a consistent management regime, with regular medications and inhalers, and preventative measures, such as controlled exercise and caution when it comes to environmental triggers. It doesn’t always work — at least once or twice a year my respirologist in Victoria has to adjust my medications, but in general, I manage.
But the invisible scars of a life with chronic illness remain. I am all too aware that my social skills are lacking at times, that I don’t pick up on cues and communication the way others do. That when I am with other people my speech comes across as more formal than necessary, courtesy of some deep-seated social anxiety. Homeschooled my entire childhood, my social circle consisted of my parents, my grandmother, and the other children in our homeschool cohort. None of us were the most outgoing of children, and even still, I was the odd one out with how often I missed group activities and outings, thanks to my asthma. The only travel I did was for doctor appointments. My world was small, safe, and sheltered. The boldest move I ever made was leaving my parents’ home in Victoria and moving to Dogwood Cove. Living your life this way is a mindset that is not easy to shake, and while I certainly do more now than I ever did when I was younger, I still exercise cautious deliberation with every decision and action.
I finish my tidying of the shop just as Nana’s favourite Joni Mitchell song comes on — “Both Sides, Now.” My hips start to sway to the sultry sounds coming through the speaker. If Serena, a former ballerina and current dance teacher, saw me, she would never let me hear the end of it. But I can’t possibly dance in front of anyone else. This is for me, and only me. Moving my body freely reminds me that I’m alive, and that despite the adversity bestowed upon me, I am still here. It’s also the only time I feel truly connected to my body. So often I am at war with the physical side of me, begging it to breathe, to function, to allow me to do normal things. But moments like this, when I feel every movement, filling my soul with happiness, I am at peace with who I am.
At the last second before locking up, I remember to grab the book Mila is waiting for. As I turn the key in the door handle, my phone starts to ring in my purse. It takes me a moment to find it, breathing slowly against the chill in the air.
“Hello, Serena.”
“Hey, girly! You done at the store?” Serena is the person I am closest to out of our group, despite the fact that we are quite different. She is bold, confident, beautiful, and outgoing. Everything I have accepted I will never be.
“Yes, I’ve just locked up.”
“Excellent. So listen, I was talking with Mila and Ashley, and we’ve decided that the next book club is also gonna be a Pleasure Party!”
I stumble, and not from stepping awkwardly. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, girly. Look, what you said at the winery opening has me worried. No woman should ever miss out on the joy of orgasms. And I’m willing to bet that you’re your own worst enemy. You know I love you, but you have got to loosen up. If a few toys are the way to get you there, well, no shame in the sex toy game!”
“Serena, I appreciate your concern for my…wellbeing, but this is entirely unnecessary.” My footsteps quicken; I’m anxious to get home and not have this conversation where someone may overhear. For that matter, I would rather not have this conversation at all, but Serena is nothing, if not tenacious.
“Paige. I’m serious. We need to fix this. You need orgasms.”
