Think before you speak, Julia. How are you going to finish that sentence exactly?
“Panic attack?” Once again he saves me from my own blundering.
My head snaps to him. Is that what he saw? I don’t say anything because lying to him now feels harder. Instead, I toy with the stitching in my seat.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you aren’t feeling well,” he says.
And no wonder I had to fight back glowing. It was silly of me to think I could get away with dancing at all. I know better. Even after all these years of practicing spending a few minutes in the limelight made the power come too fast. It’s different in front of people, in front of him. I just wanted so badly for him to notice me … to really see me and want me.
“If I did anything to make you feel uncomfortable, I’m sorry.” His voice is low and his face is twisted with earnestness.
Him?
“What? No. I’m okay. Just stomach trouble.”Really, brain?! That’s what you come up with?
I’m a petri dish of weirdness.
He doesn’t make a move to leave the car so I remain in place. We face each other in the small space and the air feels heavy with something. Is it my awkwardness? Or is my wishful thinking hoping for something more.
“You’re really good,” he says.
I blink, forgetting what we are talking about.
“When you danced,” he explains. “I don’t know what I was expecting. I guess you said tap and I thoughtSingin’ in the Rainand black and white movies.”
I blush. “Oh yeah. I get that. I like that about tap too. It can be classic, it can be contemporized. I like to pay homage to all the dancers before me.”
As I speak, he watches me with intensity. I forgot how rare it is to actually have somebody actively listen to me. If I chat with people at all they seem like they are just waiting until they can share about themselves. His gaze falls to my mouth.
“You’re really good at it,” he whispers.
“Thanks.”
“Why don’t you dance professionally?”
“Well, a couple reasons. Mostly, my health issues.”
He sits up. “Is that what happened tonight?”
“Yeah.” I let out a breath. “Doctors don’t actually know what’s wrong with me. Their best guess is fibromyalgia but I think that’s because they just don’t know what to do with me.” Obviously, I never share the glowing and zapping people with doctors but their quickness to shut me down and send me on my way had me stop going years ago, even for check-ups.
“That’s awful.”
“I manage. It’s not really something I talk about a lot.” I don’t mean to shut him down; I just don’t know how to share without seeming either melodramatic or like I’m looking for sympathy.
“It must be frustrating to not know. I hate not knowing things. I have to understand how everything works.”
“Exactly. I almost feel like if they just could properly label it, I could fight it. It’s worse not knowing.” If he only knew how clueless I feel about my own body.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Is there anything I can do?”
I shake my head. “I wish there was. When I feel … an episode coming, I can usually take care of myself.” I’ve share more with Nathaniel than I’ve shared with anyone other than Angel. Later I might regret it, but I really can’t stop the words from coming in this moment. I feel so comfortable with him and not ready to end this moment.
“Is that what’s been happening lately? The last few days, you’ve seemed a little more drawn.”
I nod but don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s the stress of the contract. Being around him. I’m a mess. He leans his head against the headrest and I mirror his position.
“I shouldn’t have gone out. I have no energy left to go back in and finish what I need to,” he says.
