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"I'll buy lunch."
"No need. I rarely have a date outside a rope session, so paying your way gives me the chance to feel manly. Come on. There's so much beautiful stuff here, you'll fit right in."
He bumped her body at the compliment, a gentle flirtation. He was trying to help her relax. She was impressed by his non-pushy intuition, and annoyed at herself for being in need of it. It really had been a while since she'd tread in these waters, and she hadn't expected to be so weighed down by the millstones of the past. She could call this not a date all she wanted. They both knew what it was. The heated energy between their two bodies, the sure clasp of his hand on hers, and the little dance inside her when he implied she was beautiful, were all proof of it.
He'd also caught her attention with the rare date comment. Another common ground for them, though she wondered what his reasons were for not dating, when he was so wonderfully, despicably good at it.
"How about before we go to the orchid area, I show you around the park some? I assume you haven't been here before. It's also probably smart to scope the terrain so when those zombies come, we'll know the best defendable ground."
"A man who plans for the worst. I appreciate that." Her hand involuntarily--so she told herself--tightened on his and he gave her that smile that made her feel like she'd be okay with him. He was going to be kind.
Kindness had become the quality she valued most in a relationship, one that was far too rare. Though she was well aware of the conflict in her nature that craved a passion that wasn't always kind, that would be edgy and demanding, she knew wanting both was like pissing in the wind. When the choice had to be made, kind was the better option. She'd learned that lesson.
For the next hour, he gave her an unhurried tour of the outdoor garden areas that he seemed to enjoy as much as she did, despite his familiarity with them. The Canal Garden was a long, rectangular koi pond with a fountain display where sparkling arches of water ran all the way along its length. The Lost Hollow, the children's garden, enchanted her. It included what Des dubbed the Troll Cave, a stone hollow underneath a wooden bridge with square rock seats where the kids could sit and enjoy the coolness. With a little stooping, it worked for adults, too, so she sat with him under there. Des amused her by singing high note choruses from Air Supply songs to demonstrate the acoustics.
They visited the Serpentine and Ribbon Gardens, then looped back to the White Garden, a sheltered courtyard decorated with beds of white flowers. Tall, slender-stemmed dancing flowers, thick ground covers and medium-sized clusters were interspersed with the variegated greenery.
Throughout his tour, they talked about different topics. Initially about their surroundings, then what gardens she'd visited up in the New York area, and the tomato plants she'd attempted to grow on her tiny window balcony in New York. If she hadn't forgotten to water them, and the cat upstairs hadn't discovered them and used them for a litter box while she was caught up in her long theater hours, she was sure the poor things could have supplied the metropolis with tomatoes.
He asked her about hobbies and she confirmed the theater was her main passion. She found out he didn't watch much TV and preferred music, which launched a discussion of favorite songs, bands and music periods.
During all that, he kept holding her hand. He'd drop it periodically to illustrate a point, or change hands as they shifted around one another on the garden paths, but inevitably, their bodies would bump and the hands would relink. She began to wonder if it was him doing it, or both of them, because it seemed so natural to let her hand find his and their fingers intertwine. As he spoke to her, he kept leaning in, brushing her shoulder and body with his hip, a casual intimacy that heightened her awareness of his proximity in an unsettling way, while simultaneously making her more comfortable with his touch.
It was when they were in the White Garden, surrounded by the lacy purity of those flowers, that she realized she was reclaiming her sense of herself. She was also feeling lighter, no longer carrying around the past relationship worries she'd had in the parking lot.
"So how old are you?" she asked. "You look like you're twenty-five, but you're more mature than any twenty-five year old I've ever met."
"I'm old enough to drink, though I don't."
"Does that have to do with why you check your blood sugar? I assumed you have Type II diabetes."
"Type I, but yeah. Most diabetics can drink, at least in moderation. I'm just not one of them." He sat down on one of the benches and looked up at her. "But I don't really like to talk about that. Not just for the sake of curiosity."
"Oh." That stung a little, but since he said it so matter-of-factly, she told herself not to take it as a personal jab. She was surprised to hear he was Type I, but it explained why he didn't fit the expected profile for a Type II diabetic. She wanted to respect his feelings, but she hoped he'd let her have one follow up. "Is it okay if I ask why you feel that way?"
"Sure." His casual shrug relaxed her again. "I was diagnosed at six years old, after a near fatal case of DKA. Diabetic ketoacidosis," he added. "It wasn't the only health problem I had, so a lot of other shit went along with that. For too long I wasn't a person. I was symptoms and medications and what did I eat today, and have you tested your blood sugar, and endless lectures. 'Des, experimenting with drugs or alcohol could kill you.' And they didn't mean it like you say it to normal kids. It was: 'A couple drinks or try that pill, and kaput. End of you.' Blah blah blah."
He shook his head. "I didn't ever care about being in the drug scene or getting drunk, but the endless hyperawareness was like being a specimen in a jar, no matter where I was or who I was with."
"Wow." She sat down next to him. "That would suck for anyone, but especially for a kid. I get it. I'd never want to talk about that again. I'm surprised you don't carry a sign that says, 'You can ask me about my diabetes if I can twist off your left nipple.'"
He laughed. "I hadn't thought of that. I'll get a few T-shirts made up." He considered her, then he shifted to lift the tail of his black shirt. On his belt he had a wallet holding something that looked like a pager. However, a tube, thin as pencil lead, was connected to it, the other end inserted into his abdomen several inches above his belt. The tube was held in place by a round piece of adhesive tape. Despite her curiosity about the set-up, she couldn't help noticing he had a very well-defined abdomen.
"When you want to touch me"--his gaze met hers-- "I didn't want this to startle you. It's an insulin pump." He tapped the pager-looking device. "You don't have to worry about dislodging the cannula just by bumping it. The cannula's the tube part. The adhesive over the injection site is so strong I have to have prescription wipes to remove it."
He was suggesting he anticipated her touching him, something she rather anticipated herself, despite any pointless admonitions to the contrary. She wanted to trace the muscles of his abdomen now, brush her fingertips over the arrow of silky hair between them.
"So you can shower in it and everything?"
"Shower, sweat like a roofer. It's not moving." He flashed her a smile. "Though I sometimes remove the pump when I do roof work because I burn through so many calories I don't have to worry about insulin. I can use other
pieces of tape to hold the connector to my body, unless it's a day when I'm moving the injection site, and then I just remove it all together and check my numbers more often."
He'd made the decision to tell her, but she could tell he was ready to move on, so she glanced up at him through her lashes. "If I asked to touch it as an excuse to fondle those awesome abs of yours, would you be okay with that?"
"Well, I told you about it because I wanted to avoid a clinical discussion during a passionate moment. It sounds like you're right on board with my unsubtle plan to get you to touch me as much as possible."
His tone was teasing, but mild, as if he anticipated her flipping back to gun-shy again. She was sure he could feel the chemistry between them as strongly as she could. The only way that chemistry wasn't going to trigger something between them was if she bolted.
