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I stand there watching the door for several moments before he knocks again. I slowly walk the few feet to the door and turn the knob, opening it slowly.
David stands there, tall and handsome with a warm smile on his face. His facial hair is freshly shaved down, close to his face. His dark hair looks like it was just cut, faded perfectly and styled nicely. My heart melts slightly when I see him holding a bouquet of unique little white flowers. Not ones that I see commonly, different ones. Lily of the Valley, I think they’re called.
I stare at him for a few minutes before I realize my heart is racing. I try to take a few deep breaths but my heart starts racing no matter how hard I try to calm it. His smile fades and I can tell he’s concerned. He takes a step towards me, hesitantly.
“What can I do?” he asks. “Are you okay?” I start hyperventilating. He panics and rushes inside. He places the flowers on my counter and walks over to me.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he says calmly. But it’s getting worse. I can barely think straight, my eyes fill with tears and I feel like I can’t breathe.
He steps closer, hesitant but desperate as he takes my face between his hands and quietly says, “breathe.” And he takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “Do what I’m doing.” He takes a deep breath again, letting it out slowly. I remember my therapy breathing exercises and I finally calm my mind enough to absorb his words. I breathe in with him and then breathe out. It takes a few tries because my breathing is shaking and shallow at first. But after several minutes we’re breathing together. Together, we breathe in for four seconds and breathe out for four seconds.
When my heart rate settles, I close my eyes and a sob bursts through my lips. Without thinking I pull my head out of his hands and press it against the middle of his chest. I cry on him, my arms remaining limp at my side. He doesn’t move for a moment, like he’s afraid to, like he doesn’t want to do anything wrong and scare me away. But as I keep crying into his chest, he slowly wraps his arms around me and he holds me tightly as if I’ll fall to pieces if he doesn’t.
Instantly, my body hums with happiness at the physical contact—the physical comfort I’ve refused for so long. Avoided. For the first time in a long time, I feel held, not just physically but emotionally.
At some point I wrap my arms around him as well and I am holding on for dear life.
I don’t know how much time passes but my arms grow heavy and I gather my thoughts enough to realize what just happened. I let go of him and immediately step away. Flooded with embarrassment, I slowly look up to meet his gaze.
He shakes his head and reads my mind again, “Please don’t say that you’re sorry. You have nothing to apologize for.”
I wipe under my eyes, and come away with a mascara covered finger. “Oh my god this is mortifying.”
“It doesn’t have to be. I promise,” he says kindly.
“Just give me a minute, please,” I say, slowly backing away towards my bathroom. He looks like he’s not sure if he should leave or stay. “Stay, I’ll be right back.” I see his shoulders drop slightly, in relief. In hope.
He nods and folds his hands together in front of him, waiting patiently for me to get back.
I rush to the bathroom and see my face streaked in black. Ugh. I grab a makeup wipe and just decide to wipe all of my eye makeup off. Once my face is clean, but still red and puffy, I kick my shoes off and walk back out to my living area.
He is standing in the same place, and smiles when he sees me.
“I’m so sorry. I thought I was ready for this, but I just panicked and I’m sorry I just cried and snotted all over you. I don’t care what you say, it was disgusting and mortifying.”
“You can do it anytime. Promise,” he says, sincerely. Kindly.
“I don’t think I’m, uh, up for going out tonight,” I say quietly. He nods, understanding. Even though I see disappointment flash in his eyes, I see understanding more. I see worry and concern mixed with that compassion he seems to exude.
“I understand. If you want to try again, I’ll be ready. If not, I understand,” he says with a small smile.
He steps back, and I can tell he’s about to turn around and leave, but before he gets to the door I say, “You can stay if you want? We can order in?”
He pauses and turns. Hope lights up his eyes as he nods and says, “I would love that.”
We ordered Indian food and he offered to pick it up, probably to kill time so we’re not standing around my kitchen awkwardly.
He gets back with the food and we both make our plates and sit down on the couch. I put the TV on—picking a sitcom—and we watch mindlessly while eating.
When we finish, I know I should probably explain myself to him. And as if he reads my mind again he says, “You don’t owe me any explanations.”
I shake my head in disagreement. “I really do.”
“Ana, I promise you don’t. You share with me what you're comfortable with, even if that’s nothing. I’m just happy to be your friend, if that’s what we are. I’m happy to be here, with you,” he says, and I sense the truth in those words. Not fake or forced. Genuine.
“You’re such an incredible guy, David,” I say. He shakes his head, waving off the compliment. “I mean that. You must think I’ve been a basket case since the first moment you met me.”
“Trust me, that’s not what I thought,” he promises.
