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“I can’t.” She looked down and turned away from Nicholas. “I’m sorry.”
She took the dishes to the sink and started washing them. It wasn’t long before she felt Nicholas’s large body come to stand beside hers. She only scrubbed the plate harder.
“Did I miss something?” he asked. “I thought we were having a nice time here.”
“We are,” she said, abandoning the dish in the sink and finally looking up at him. He was so tall, she had to crane her neck. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just not…” She shook her head, not knowing what to say. “I’m not whatever it is you’re looking for.”
She turned off the faucet and walked to pull off the beaters from the mixer in order to wash them. Anything so she didn’t have to see the disappointment and confusion on Nicholas’s face.
“Feel free to take a few cupcakes with you for the road.”
“Sloane.”
Her eyes closed at hearing his low, resonant voice say her name. And when he came up behind her and reached around to turn off the faucet again, she wanted to sink back against him. To feel his arms wrap around her and—
No. God, she was acting so stupid. She started to pull away again but his voice stopped her.
“Talk to me.”
When she glanced up and saw his eyebrows furrowed with confusion and compassion, something snapped inside her. And so she told him what she’d never told anybody other than her shrinks and her family.
“I can’t leave the house.” She said it in a rush, eyes shut. “Ever. I have this… disorder. Agoraphobia. I can’t leave the house. I get afraid.”
Words toppled out, one after another. “Really freaked out, actually. It’s why I couldn’t even go out to try to help Ramona when she got hurt the other day.” Her voice broke on this last confession.
When she dared open her eyes, the surprise was clear on Nicholas’s face.
“When was the last time you did? Actually leave?”
She winced. Damn, he had to go right for the gut, didn’t he? Not that he knew that asking an agoraphobic that was like asking a woman what she weighed. Still, she answered him, staring at the floor.
“Six years.” It came out barely above a whisper. She didn’t count the one time she barely made it out onto the porch. She kept her gaze averted. She couldn’t bear to see the look in his eyes that said, you’re a freak and get me the hell out of here.
“Sloane.” His voice was so soft it broke her heart. He reached down and took her hand. God, didn’t he realize that every touch, every second she spent with him was going to make it that much more brutal when he left and she only had the memories of their two short encounters to torture her after he was gone? Here she was, exposing exactly how fucked up she was. She doubted it was something a guy could get past.
“Look at me.”
His other hand went underneath her chin, nudging her face up to his. She still kept her eyes averted. Until he said again, “Look at me, sweetheart.”
Was he trying to kill her? Finally she lifted her eyes. And was met with hazel ones, full of compassion.
“I can’t imagine how hard it must have been to tell me that. I’m so glad you trusted me enough to share it. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Was he kidding?
His voice was firm as he went on. “You never have to be ashamed of anything when you’re with me.”
She wanted to believe him. She wanted it so badly. But as soon as he discovered just how deep her freakishness ran, he’d be out of there. Better to rip the band aid off now.
She tried to pull back from him but he held her in place. “I haven’t even been upstairs in over a year,” she whispered. She told him everything—about all her ridiculous fears. Rotten floors, getting trapped by a fire. It all sounded even more ludicrous telling him. He must think she was insane.
She shook her head. “It’s okay. You should go.” She tried for a gracious smile she was pretty sure came out more like a grimace.
Instead, he took her hand and drew her back to the kitchen table. She sat down where he pointed. Then, not letting go of her hand, he reached around and dragged his chair close. When he sat down, their knees touched. “I’m not going anywhere. Tell me more about it.”
Sloane’s stomach dropped out. Was he serious? Did he actually—?
“Agoraphobic. I’ve heard the word before, but I can’t say I know anything about it. It’s a fear of open spaces? Or a fear of other people?”
She shook her head. “Agoraphobic is kind of a misnomer. It’s more like…” God, was she really going to try to explain this to him? But he wasn’t running for the hills yet. And a part inside her sprouted hope like a tiny little flower. Stupid. Stupid. But she went on anyway.
