Page 84 of Whispered Promises

What makes me so different that I end up paralysed, teetering on the edge?

“Fear is a tricky thing, and as humans, I think we’re ingrained with the need to survive. It can be hard to shake that fear and trust something won’t hurt. But I also think we can put pressure on ourselves and end up lost in the idea of what we should and shouldn’t be feeling, what we should and shouldn’t be achieving. When you take that pressure off, sometimes you notice the leap isn’t as big as you first feared. Instead, it’s just a step.”

His fingers find mine, intertwining us together as our arms stay looped over the fence.

The silence stretches as his words swim around my mind.

Is that what I’m doing? Building everything up so much that the leap…the risk…seems so much bigger than it is?

“You know, you might need to be the one who decides to take it, but you also don’t have to take that step alone,” he adds after a while, pulling me back from my thoughts as he turns, tugging me so we face one another.

Optimism doesn’t feel as natural as focusing on everything that could go wrong. It’s easier to forecast the bad and be prepared for that. But maybe I can try to take a step forward, to take something for myself, to create a slice of happiness and enjoy it.

So I do.

I step forward, closer to the beautifully understanding man in front of me. His hand untangles from mine, then trails along the line of my cheekbone.

“Okay,” I murmur into the short space between us.

His smile catches the air in my lungs. With the way the sun’s slowly descending to the side of us, it highlights and frames his features: the angle of his jaw, the smattering of stubble, the green in his eyes.

His hand cups my nape gently, and his mouth drops to mine, lingering wordlessly as we share the same breath. His lips brush back and forth against mine, then he presses in and kisses me with a confidence that seeps into my body, filtering through my every limb and cell.

My arms reach up of their own accord, wrapping around his neck as I rise on my tiptoes and press my body into him. His tongue, warm and soft, strokes across the seam of my lips; they fall open, my body in tune with his as his tongue slides across mine. Clutching me to him, he guides the kiss, coaxing and erasing the last note of hesitation I had.

I want this with him. With them.

I know this doesn’t mean I won't have any doubts, any anxious moments of panic and worry. But I need to remember this, remember what it’s like to take that step and the taste of happiness as Noah’s tongue licks against mine.

THIRTY-THREE

BRYNN

Noah

We’re just heading home now. She said yes to coming over for dinner, but she seemed hesitant about it. Can you talk to Maxi; let him know she’s coming over?

The message evokes mixed feelings. I’ve missed Rosy being here in our space, but worry follows for how it will go for both her and Max.

He’s been…sullen this week, subdued. I’m not looking forward to letting him know Rosy will be here this evening. That he needs to pull his head out of his backside and not make her feel more upset about it.

Me

Yeah, sure, I can do that. I’ll see you in a bit. Tell Rosy I’m looking forward to seeing her.

Deciding that tonight calls for comfort food to help put everyone at ease, I take out the semolina and 00 flour, then weigh them out before tipping them onto the clean work surface. Breaking the eggs into the centre of the flours, I slowly mix them in, pulling the flour into the egg bit by bit.

People and emotions are messy; they’re real and uncontrollable.

But here, in this space? I know the outcomes. I know what ingredients, what quantities, and what actions are needed to produce something. In this case, it’s pasta. To me, pasta is a comforting hug in a bowl. It’s warmth and love.

I might not be able to fix both of them hurting, but I can make this for them to show I care, that I’m here.

Just as I’m wrapping the dough up to rest, Max walks in, having had a shower after getting home from work a little earlier. As he walks past me, heading towards the sofa in the living area, I call, “Maxi? Can we talk real quick?”

His back stiffens before he spins around, pasting a disingenuous smile on his face.

It’s been like that all week; all his smiles feel forced and heavy. He walks over, slipping onto one of the stools on the other side of the island. Grabbing the surface spray and a cloth, I wipe down the area to remove the excess flour. It’s easier to talk when my hands are busy, but it still doesn’t quash the fizzle of worry.