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It was an odd question, and I looked down. I hadn’t realized, but my fingers were tangled in the straps and cords fastened around his wrists. One in particular was leather, the underside buttery soft and the edges a little frayed like it’d been cut from something larger. It was sort of like a cuff, the way it was fastened together with a loop on the end of the strap that slipped over what looked like a hammered piece of silver metal. The metal was the size of a coin and concave. The dip in the center fascinated me, and I was rubbing my thumb over it again and again while my other fingers played with the other cords.
Self-conscious, I stalled my fingers, thumb lifting.
His other hand covered mine, pushing it back to his wrist. “Keep going.”
“So anyway, yeah,” I said. “I have unusual responses to stimuli. Especially sound.”
“Sound?”
“Yeah, your favorite thing is sort of my kryptonite.”
“Explain.”
My fingers tangled in the leather strap, my thumb automatically tapping against the metal button. One, two, three. One, two, three.
“I have misophonia,” I confessed. “It’s basically a disorder in which certain sounds trigger an unreasonable emotional and even physiological response.”
Since I was sitting in his lap, I felt his body tense.
“You have misophonia?”
This time, it was me who tensed, but I went so taut I started to shake. “It’s a real thing.” I defended. “My doctor said so.”
“Of course it is,” he said, not an ounce of disbelief in his voice.
Astonishment had me jolting back so far that the only part of me that touched him was the part of my ass still in his lap. “You’ve heard of misophonia?”
He half smiled. “Sound is sort of my thing.”
“But this is…”
“A brain disorder.”
“H-how do you know that?” I asked, doubt crowding my chest and making it ache. Was this some kind of joke? Because if so, it was cruel. And I would know because cruelty was not something new to me.
To pretend to accept something most people said was just an excuse for bad behavior, to try and lure me into some false sense of trust…
“I took a psychology of sound class.”
My eyes narrowed. “Westbrook doesn’t have that class.”
“I know that. But they do have general psych, and when I took it, the professor touched on how sound affects people, and it made me curious. So I found an online lecture about it and listened to it.”
“Why?”
“Sound is my thing. You know that. Thought it was interesting. The lecture went over a few disorders like hyperacusis and phonophobia. Misophonia was also talked about.”
“Did they mention tinnitus?” I asked, fidgeting with the seam of the cargo pocket on the side of my joggers.
“Do you have that too?”
I nodded.
“Hey.” His voice was gentle. Soothing. So much so that tears pooled in my eyes, and I started to blink rapidly.
His hands were warm and large. The way they whispered over my cheeks when he cupped my face made goose bumps rush along my arms. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. I just continued picking at the seam while blinking and telling myself not to cry.
It was hard to breathe. My lungs were tight as if they’d forgotten how to work. It only made my eyes burn more.
