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The words land like stones in my chest. On instinct, I look down to where my hands lie relaxed and deceptively innocent in my lap. It’s weird to be asked about it. With a jolt, I realize I never have. Everyone in my life who ever noticed something was different about me—Peyton, Annabeth, even my brothers, eventually—waited until I explained on my own.
So maybe weird isn’t the right word. It’s nice to be asked. “I’m pretty good at hiding it most of the time,” I tell him, “but you’ve probably noticed that my fingers don’t always cooperate.”
“I did, but—well, we’ve been together a lot lately. There aren’t that many places to look,” he says with an apologetic smile. “I chew on my nails when I’m anxious. I just assumed you were a fidgeter.”
I laugh, and the tension slowly leaves me. It’s nice to be able to tell James what’s going on. Means I won’t have to sit on my hands quite so much around him. “It’s called dystonia. Focal dystonia in my case. Basically, when your brain tells a muscle to move, it’s also telling another muscle not to. With dystonia, both muscles around a joint will contract at the same time. It means my hands clench into fists and spasm—mostly my left hand, but occasionally my right. Sometimes my fingers flex and extend, and become generally uncooperative.”
“It’s worse in your left hand,” he says quietly. “That’s why I’ve seen you try to use your right sometimes even though you’re a lefty?”
I stare at him for a few seconds. He noticed all of that? I’m not sure if that means he’s curious or fascinated, but thankfully his attention feels warm, not clinical. “If I keep dropping my pencil, yeah.”
He winces. “Does it hurt?” His voice is so gentle, it’s almost painful.
“Sometimes.”
“What are the appointments for?”
“Botox,” I say, and throw him a dramatic pout. “It keeps the muscles from cramping. But I get it in my hands, obviously, so I don’t even get to be wrinkle-free from it.”
He lets out a quiet groan. “I’m sorry, Carey.”
“Eh,” I say, grinning, “I don’t have any wrinkles yet anyway.”
“I mean about all of it,” he says, awkwardly rushing to clarify.
Reflexively pushing past the sympathy, I say, “It’s fine. Melly can be terrible, but she’s been there for me when I needed it. She lets me design. She lets me make things. I don’t know another company that would let me do that with my level of experience.” I lie back on the cement and look up at the windows; more of them are dark now than there were before. I imagine looking for another job. Going to interviews. Having to explain to a new boss and coworkers that I won’t always be able to keep my hands still, that sometimes I can’t grip a phone or a pencil or do something as simple as fasten a button. I’ve only written a résumé once and I’m sure it was terrible. I laugh when I remember that, the one time I applied for another job, under “Previous Work Experience,” I included eleventh grade accounting class.
I put my hands over my face and groan. “Want to hear something crazy?”
“Always.”
“I actually started seeing a therapist because I needed someone to talk to, but then couldn’t tell her anything about work because of the way the NDA is worded. How fucked up is that? Okay. I’m going to shut up. I’m depressing both of us.”
“No, you’re not.” I hear James set the empty bottle on the cement. “But come on. Let’s do something.”
I open my eyes to see him towering over me.
“Like what? It’s not like we can go anywhere, and I don’t want to go inside. I have to save my money if I’m about to be unemployed.”
He slides his hands into his pockets, jiggling some change, and I notice his arms again. Tan, nicely toned, not too veiny. Just a smattering of hair. “Let’s swim.”
I snap my attention back to his face. “I already told you, I didn’t bring a suit.”
“When did that ever stop you before?” He starts to unbutton his shirt. His collarbones come into view and—okay, wait, he has my attention now.
I sit up, reaching out to stop him. “I’m not going skinny-dipping at a hotel pool!” I lean forward, hissing, “Are you insane?”
He shrugs out of his button-down to reveal a riveting stretch of bare chest and stomach underneath. I’ve never imagined James shirtless before.
I was not prepared. He’s not at all bulky, but he’s defined, with smooth, tan skin and muscles that lengthen and flex as he moves. My mouth waters again, this time not for the Funyuns.
“I’m not talking about getting naked,” he says, and I try to ignore the way all my nerve endings sit up and pay attention. He unfastens his belt and nods toward the pool. Have I ever noticed the sound of a belt before? Because right now the slide of leather and click of the buckle are bordering on obscene.
