“Because they’re afraid of getting hurt.” Resting my elbows and forearms on the table, I leaned in. “I think we have that in common, actually.”
“Considering you’ve been single for the last decade, I’d have to agree.”
Always so witty, so teasing. Someone else may have found that offensive, but not me. I knew it was just Gwen’s way of leveling the playing field. How could she be vulnerable when I wasn’t?
“Fair enough,” I said. “In my defense, I do have Lizzie to worry about. But lots of people date when they have kids, so I think you make a valid point.”
“Technically, it was the point you made. I was just agreeing.” She, too, rested her forearms on the table and leaned closer. “What are you afraid of?”
I couldn’t say it. It’d scare her. And it should’ve. She should’ve, on some level, been afraid of a future with me. With genes like mine, everyone should’ve been afraid to get too close to me.
But she deserved some version of the truth. “The American dream. A white picket fence that seems oh-so perfect to the rest of the world but looks more like iron bars from the inside looking out.”
She arched her brows at that, eyes softening. “Deep.”
A crooked half smile. “Your turn.”
With a quiet sigh, she returned the expression. Only for a moment. Then her gaze fell to the table, around the room, and she nibbled on her lower lip. Supposed this wasn’t the question Rhiannon had asked in therapy. It took longer than expected for her to look me in the eyes again.
When she did, they were the gentlest I had ever seen them. “Betrayal.”
“Being betrayed by what, exactly?”
“Anything. Everything.” The wall stayed down. Her voice, her eyes, everything about her stayed soft. “Infidelity, sure. That would suck. Violence, obviously. Promises that we’re in this together, that we want this to work, but not showing up for the hard conversations that will inevitably arise. Stonewalling or gaslighting when I’m upset about something and want to work through it. Swearing that you’re in this, that you want this, and then abandoning me when things aren’t easy.”
Without thought, I said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes sparkled for half a second, then her cheeks turned red. An awkward smile pulled at the corners of her lips as she leaned back.
“What?” I studied her. “What was wrong with that answer?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Smiling, she shook her head. “It’s just—I don’t know.”
I slid my hand across the table and onto hers. As our fingers twined together, I said, “I think you do. And hey, you’re the one who said it. You want someone who’s going to show up for the hard conversations, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but?—”
“But you’re gonna be the one who ducks out?”
She traced her tongue along her teeth, a smile still resting over it. A deep inhale dropped between her barely parted lips. “We haven’t been doing this for very long. It’s not that I don’t believe you, but words are words.”
I understood. She needed time to believe me. I didn’t blame her for that. It’s not like I was in any rush either. “That’s alright. Eventually, you’ll believe me.”
She gave my hand a squeeze. “And eventually, you’ll believe me.”
The only problem was me. That I wasn’t sure if I believed myself.
So, I changed the subject. “You know, I like seeing you perform.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. There’s something different about you afterward.”
“It’s the poor folks’ high.”
I snorted. “The what?”
“That’s what my mom used to call it. That feeling after a live performance. Even if I’m not the one performing, when I leave a concert, if the music’s good, I just feel this rush. Like nothing could go wrong. Like everything makes sense for once. Like my brain has finally shut off.”
