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Possibly it was the thrill of sticking it to the man and the heady rush of standing up to someone terrifying. The thrill of rescuing someone. Being the strong one. Carrying someone; coddling and protecting, defending like a lioness.
Maybe it was the smell of spring in the air; the field of four-leaf clovers we pass. Red roses against a fence. Leather seats and Josh’s skin.
No, it was something else; the new knowledge of something irreversible, permanent. It cycled through my head with each revolution of the car’s wheels, each pulse of blood in my frail whisper-thin veins. At any moment a tiny valve could buckle under the pressure of the cholesterol from my croissants. At any moment I could die.
But I don’t. I fall asleep, my cheek
against the warm seat, my face turned toward him, like it always has been. Like it always will.
I open my eyes a tiny crack. We’re in a parking garage.
“We’re home,” he says.
I think the unthinkable. I should have been thinking it all along. My eyes slide closed and I feign sleep.
“You need to wake up,” he whispers. A kiss on my cheek. A miracle.
I love Joshua Templeman.
Chapter 28
We walk into his apartment and he puts my overnight bag with his in the bedroom, like I am returning home. I use the bathroom and when I come out, he’s making me a cup of tea with the concentration of a scientist.
He takes one look at my face. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me.”
My stomach drops out of my body and I grip the edge of the counter. He knows. He’s a mind reader. My eyes are love-hearts.
“You’re completely freaking out,” he states flatly. I can’t do anything but make awkward eye-slides and lip-nibbles. I look at his front door. I can’t get past him, he’ll be too quick.
“No chance. Get on the couch,” he scolds. “Get. Go on.”
I slip my shoes off and go and scrunch myself in a ball on his couch, hugging the ribbon-cushion.
He’s right, I am completely freaking out. It’s the mother of all freak-outs. I’ve completely lost my voice.
I talk to myself in the privacy of my head.
You love him. You love him. You always have. More than you’ve ever hated him. Every day, staring at this man, knowing every color and expression and nuance.
Every game you’ve ever played has been to engage with him. Talk to him. Feel his eyes on you. To try to make him notice you.
“I’m such an idiot,” I breathe.
I open my eyes and nearly scream. He’s standing over me with a mug and a plate.
“I simply can’t condone this level of freak-out,” he says, and gives me a sandwich. He puts the mug on the coffee table. He disappears for a minute then comes back with my gray fleecy blanket.
It’s like he knows I’ve had some kind of shock. He tucks me in on all sides, brings me an extra pillow. Who knows what my face looks like. I avoided looking at myself in the bathroom.
My teeth begin to chatter and I reach for what is quite a good-looking sandwich. No shoddy workmanship here. It’s even cut in half diagonally; my favorite.
I chew like a chipmunk, using my tiny prehensile paws to rip off the crust. I’ve got bright, shifty button eyes and puffed-up cheeks.
“You have not said a word to me since I woke you up. You look shell-shocked. Your hands are shaking. Low blood sugar? Bad dreams? Carsick?”
He discards his plate, his sandwich untouched.
“You’re still tired. You have stomach pains.” Josh begins to rub my feet through the blanket. When he speaks again, it’s so low I can barely hear.
