“Because none of this is hard.” He shrugs one shoulder. “The hard part was you showing up today, in the daytime, looking like a snack.” He holds his hand out but doesn’t reach for me. He just offers it, palm up, leaving the last move to me.
I look at his hand, at the flour on his arm, and at the door standing open behind him.
“If I come in,” I say, “I need you to act normal. Not careful. Careful makes me feel like I’m a freak.”
“I can do normal.”
“You’re the least normal person I’ve ever met.”
“Takes one to know one.” He wiggles the offered hand. “Come on. Brunch is getting cold, and I’m standing here holding a door like an idiot. The neighbors are going to start to talk,” he chuckles.
And here’s the thing I finally understand, standing on Caleb Adams’s doorstep in the daylight with my whole truth laid bare between us. I spent my life sure that being known all the way to the bottom was the most dangerous thing that could happen to me. But he listened to my entire irks and quirks list, and he’s still standing there holding the door.
He holds so much power over me in this moment; he has zero idea. This could be one of the most self-destructive things either one of us has ever done…or it could be amazing.
I think about my pros and cons list from earlier. I think about the one item in the right column.
Him.
My hands aren’t steady.
Everything in me that’s kept me safe for twenty-three years says run.
But for once, I don’t listen to it.
And I take his hand.
Jasmine
The first thing I notice inside is that he’s turned most of the bright lights off. Not dimmed but off. There’s one lamp on in the corner, low and warm, and the refrigerator that hummed all through dinner the first night I came is unplugged, the cord coiled neatly on the counter.
He must have done all this before he knew for sure I’d come. He went around the room and switched off the parts that scream at me, just in case I showed up.
“You unplugged your fridge,” I say. “That can’t be good for the stuff inside.”
“It buzzes. You told me the buzzing’s the worst one.”
“That was weeks ago.”
“I remember the stuff that matters.” He’s leaning on the counter, not crowding me, hands where I can see them. “You can still leave, you know. A daylight decision means you get to undecide. I’ll live.”
“I bet.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I notice stuff too. There are girls on this campus who would slit my throat to take my place.”
“That’s a bit dramatic, Dixon.”
“I’m just saying.”
“All I was saying is that you are not bound by any decision you made at the crack of dawn. You can leave, or you can stay.”
“I’m not leaving. I’m just worried about your food.”
“There’s not much in there. I buy a few ingredients, then I cook. I’m not a stay-at-home mom of five who shops for the month.”
“Funny.”
