I take a turn toward Sunny Pages and know better than to vilify her parents while she’s still holding grace for them. Never mind that I want to stab her entire immediate family repeatedly with a dull butter knife. Providing that information would only make her wary of me, not them. Love does that to people. The excuses you can make for the ones you love are endless. So I proceed with caution. “Life shouldn’t be constantly confusing or make you feel like you’re constantly tiptoeing, cutie pie. Sometimes people can mean well and be wonderful human beings—” Or trash slugs. “—but they still might not be what you need. To use the growth analogy, some plants die in desert conditions, others were built to thrive there. Some people are sand when you need lush rainforest earth.” Parking right in front of the rustic bookstore overgrown with ivy and adorned with hanging plants, I take in the cheery window display of lavish page art around latest releases, including one of Viktor’s novels.
Clara hasn’t looked up most of the drive, but now her attention slowly elevates. Her fingers tangle. She chews her cheek.
“What are you feeling?” I murmur.
“I’m uncomfortable with the idea of going in there and asking for things—even though I know it fulfills something for you.”
“You understand that your apprehension makes it mean so much more to me that you’re willing to, for my sake?”
She nods.
“You also understand that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I need you to want to. That’s what makes it matter to me.”
She pulls her lip into her mouth. “I…do want to. I want books. It just feels weird. Wanting is selfish, but because of how you are, not wanting is also selfish.” A labored breath enters her. “It’s confusing to figure out what’s right.”
“There’s no wrong answer here, E-clair-a. Whatever you want is right.” But, since we’re speaking onselfishness, I’m the one who doesn’t need to bask in her struggle. She wants books; she’ll get books. There’s no reason for me to hover over her, hoping she’ll beg me for them, while she does. “If you’d like—” I get out my wallet, open it, and offer her my platinum AMEX. “—I can give you my card, and you can get whatever you want without feeling like I’m pressuring you or expecting something.”
Her hands clench, and she turns her attention to me, staring at the plastic in my hands. Broken and soft, she says, “Why are you so kind to me? Why, even when you don’t get anything out of it, are you still so kind to me? Am I missing something? Am I being stupid? Is it really obvious? You’re grooming me, aren’t you?” Her face blisters, and she squeezes her eyes shut. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. That was so rude.”
It’s not rude, but it does sting, especially since I’m not sure myself whether what I’m doing is remotelyokay. I do crave complete dependency, and I have isolated her from her past, but I hope I haven’t been doing anything that leads her to doubt herself more than she already does. If anything, her parents seem to have groomed her into a husk of a servant girl. I’m trying to undo the damage. “Speaking your mind is a rule, cupcake.”
Soft as can be, she says, “Falling madly in love with you is also a rule.”
Yes, well. “Learning to saynois one, too.”
“Am I supposed to saynoto one of the other rules? What if I saynoto the rule about saying no?”
“Then I think you’ll have created a paradox, and we’re all doomed to fall into a death vortex.” I pop my card back in my wallet then rest the dark leather in my lap.
Her tiny frown fixes on me, and I’m a big fan of what that expression and this conversation means. She’s growing. Feeling safer. Bringing up topics that could end in disaster. She’s takingchances, challenging her environment, noticing the differences between the sand and the earth.
“I’m sorry,” she says, finally, relapsing into old habits of submission.
I shake my head. “It’s a valid question. There’s nothing to apologize for. If I’m making you uncomfortable, tell me how, and then hold tight to the feeling. If I don’t change my behavior for you and accommodate your comfort, if I continue to cross boundaries when you’ve communicated them clearly, cut me off.”
“What if I’m wrong?”
“Does it matter?”
Her brows knit. “Of course it matters. What if I make you into something you aren’t because of my confused feelings? Feelings aren’t even real.”
“Feelings are very real, Clara. And if I am making youfeeluncomfortable, that means my actions prompted that feeling. You are smart enough and intuitive enough to recognize when something is wrong. You don’t have to vilify someone to understand that they’re not good for you. You deserve to feel safe. And if I’m not willing to accommodate you in that venture, you must tell me, so I can make efforts to fix it. Because, you, Clara? You are worthy of that effort. And I am willing to fix whatever I need to for you.”
“But what if I’m the problem?” she whispers. “What if I’m the one who needs to be cut off? What if I’m the one crossing boundaries?”
“Then, sweetness, isn’t it my job to tell you and make those decisions for myself? You handle what you can control; I’ll handle what I can.” I reach for her face, cup her cheek in my palm, electrify as she shivers and the fine hairs on her arms rise. “Now…am I making you uncomfortable? Has anything I’ve done made you uncomfortable? I am happy to curb my actions so youfeel safe. I know I’m royally—” I swear. “—up. So it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that I’m unintentionally hurting you. But, listen: I do notwantto hurt you. And I will gladly put effort into making sure I’m not.”
Her lips tremble as her eyes fill with glassy tears. Lifting her fingers to my wrist, she holds my touch to her skin as droplets fall along my thumb. “I…didn’t like when you looked in my recipe book without permission. And I know it was wide open on my bed, but…it was private.”
A twinge in my chest pinches; I ignore it, for her sake. “I’m so sorry. I will ask next time to make sure it’s okay.”
Sniffling, she shakes her head. “It doesn’t even matter anymore. I’m being so stupid. You help me in the kitchen a lot. I make the recipes forusnow. I color-code the tasks between us.”
That confession doesotherthings to my chest, and these sensations I don’t ignore. “It’s not stupid,” I whisper, voice rough. “I’m inclined to overstep. I know that. Your emotions concerning my pitiful inability to recognize someone’s personal space are valid. It’s something I should work on. What else?”
“I don’t want to nitpick.”
“Please do.” I swipe away her tears. “Let nothing fester. Show me that you care about our friendship enough to make sure nothing big or small gets in the way of it.”
