She turns her face into my hand. “I don’t want to ask you not to be yourself. I already feel like you’re too careful with me.”
I try my very best to betoo carefulwith everyone, because at least then I’m almost half decent. “I’ll only feel safe being less careful with you if you feel safe telling me when I’ve gone too far. Does that make sense? The more honest we are with one another, the more free we are to be who we are with one another.”
“I don’t know…”
I kiss her forehead. “You’re important to me. What do you think will happen if you tell meno?”
“You’ll hate me,” she whispers. “And then you’ll send me back home. And I won’t be able to bake or read or laugh with everyone anymore.”
The very idea that shedoesn’twant to go home anymore sparks hope in me. “Does that align with what you know is true about my character? Have I given you reason to believe that I would send you away so easily?”
Her head turns, hitches a moment, then shakes. “No.”
“Do you know that if you wanted to leave, I wouldn’t force you to stay?”
“I don’t want to leave.”
Breath abandons me, and I pull her into my arms, as close as the center console will allow. “I don’t want you to leave, either. There isn’t a single thing you could tell me that would overcome my desire to keep you if you want to stay.”
Her arms circle me, and I lose my ability to think. Her damp cheek presses to my neck. “I think…you’re the first real friend I’ve ever had.”
Death would be less painful than the knowledge she has suffered twenty-two years all alone.
“I don’t want to control you,” she whispers, and the feeling is very much not mutual. I want to own this woman. I want her in my veins. I want her etched into my flesh and bone. “Can we…” She takes a hard breath into her shaking chest. “…try being less careful with each other?”
“Only so long as it doesn’t hurt you. You need to tell me if I hurt you. Youneedto tell me.”
“I can text better than I can speak sometimes. Is that okay?”
“Absolutely.”
“It won’t frustrate you that I can’t communicate like an adult?”
I squeeze her. “Oh, Clara. You are so completely the opposite of frustrating. How can I explain to you just how deeply I adore you?”
“That is very much not what I have been previously told.”
“Who told you? The sand, or the soil? And which have your roots been more able to thrive in?”
A tiny smile touches her precious, beautiful, lilting voice. “You like that analogy, don’t you?”
“A little bit. I might turn it into a song.”
Her hug weakens, and I mourn the loss as she pulls away to dry her face. “Will you play it for me if you do?”
“Absolutely.”
Timid, she smiles. “I’m sorry for all of this.”
“I’m not. I’m grateful for the opportunity to know you better.” Pulling my keys from the ignition, I ask, “You ready to go in?”
She nods.
“Me and my card, or just my card?”
“You,” she says, and opens her door.
