Page 62 of Fate Fiction

“And that was normal for you?” I asked.

“For four years, yeah,” his fingers tapped on the chair in a repetitive pattern. “I know it’s not normal. I don’t think anything about my life ever will be. That’s why I like it here so much, for the first time in a decade I feel…normal.”

“Do you want to date again?” I left the question open-ended. Not asking if he wanted to date me in particular.

He raked his hands through his hair. “I think I do? It’s hard to. I can’t tell the difference between someone who wants to get something out of me versus someone who wants me for me. I can’t ever feel like I’m fully myself around someone. And it’s not like I can join dating apps, or go out to a bar to meet someone.”

“It could always happen organically, getting to know each other over time and all that.” Like right now, during these few days of normalcy for him. Maybe the stars were aligning.

“People don’t want to know me,” he said solemnly.

I do, I do, I do, I do, I repeated in my head.

He deserved someone who could be a supportive partner, and see him, all of him, beyond his fame and money.

I was beginning to think I could be that person, and that maybe I even wanted to be that person. I felt it. This thing blooming between Evan and I. Glowing and bright like the stars above us.

I was going to grasp at it the best I could until it slipped through my fingertips.

twelve

. . .

Wednesday, June 4

I woke up and for the first time didn’t have the immediate visceral urge to run.

I laid in bed, spread out like a starfish, thinking about the turn the week had taken. Thinking about kissing Evan McLeod. Thinking about the hints of vulnerability Evan was showing me. Thinking about the way he said that no one wants to know him. I wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted to know him and all those tiny details that were slowly showing themselves on the surface.

This thing between him and I was unbalanced. He’d shown me pieces of himself that he hadn’t seemed to show anyone else, and I was still hiding a massive secret from him. I didn’t know how to come clean about this shameful fandom side of me. The fact of my fanfiction was like a balloon in the room with us, inflating larger bit by bit until it would pop.

Evan and I had walked back to our cabins together last night. He kissed me chastely, thanking me again for everything the day had brought us. We said our goodnights, and that was that. No flying squirrels brought us into the same bed again.

That was the end of our first date.

Truthfully, I forgot what dating was like, if I could call this dating. When Nick and I were in our early days we’d subsided on sloppy hookups and days spent on end at the others’ place. There was no gentle hand holding and sweet goodnight kisses. We were in our early twenties and didn’t need the stability of having a singular home to return to. I had slept with Nick multiple times before he took me on a real date outside his crappy studio apartment.

I rode on the exhaust fumes of the initial chemistry of our meet cute for weeks.

This was markedly different. Evan was…sweet. Everything he did—even the impulsive moments—seemed to have a careful hesitant desire behind them. He knew this was something delicate, and he held it in his hands like a butterfly.

I wondered if Evan was going to get sick of spending nearly every waking moment with me. I wasn’t going to push anything or encroach on his space. The kitchen was quiet, and though no one else was in the cabin with me I tiptoed, keeping the sanctity of the morning silence. I put a pot of coffee on and sat out on the porch.

Like clockwork, Evan was also sitting out waiting. Instead of exchanging uncomfortable greetings and an obligatory invitation, he got up and made a beeline to my cabin.

“Good morning,” he said, voice raspy with sleep. His thumb and forefinger cupped my chin, the pad of his thumb brushing along my skin. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you last night. And how I wanted to do this again.” He dipped down and our lips met before I had time to say good morning back to him.

I pulled back and looked at him, his messy hair, his tired eyes. The creases by his eyes and the crinkles at the corners of his mouth. Backlit by the morning sun he was beautiful.

He smelled like sleep and the detergent Sue used on the sheets. I rested my head on his chest, inhaling his scent, and Evan buried his face in my hair.

Time to question would come later.

If I was reading the novel where I was the main character I’d probably tell that fictional Dani that he was going to ruin her life.

“You want coffee, right?” I asked, still pressed against his chest. I had planned for another cup for him—as much as I tried to fight it, I knew I had wanted him to come over and do exactly this.

“You know it.” He released his grip on me and followed me into the kitchen.