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Trace takes them between his. God, his hands are like a furnace compared to mine. “You’re cute when your nose and cheeks are red.”
I roll my eyes. “Because it’s a freaking freezer out there. Mom wanted to learn about the friend,” I give him a pointed look, “I’m hanging out with and who is the reason I can’t talk to her right now.”
His body tenses. I swear, he even stops breathing for a moment. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, releasing my hands and leaving them to fall limply into my lap. “You told them?”
“No.” I shake my head. “But am I not supposed to?”
“I just.” He grips the back of his neck and squeezes. His eyes tightly shut before staring at the basket of pickles. “I didn’t consider them when I was trying to think of all my bases that might need covering. They won’t be happy about it. About us.” Those hazel eyes return to me.
“Why?” I don’t understand his reaction. My parents know Trace. They met him when he was my therapist, and they loved him as much as I did. My body now has no problem getting warm. My hands begin to turn clammy, my neck heats up, and I start squeezing my wrist. I mean, I don’t even know what us means. Nausea rolls through me. The last thing a person wants to smell when they feel like vomiting is the aroma of fried pickles. I push them away as Trace answers.
“Think about it. I was your therapist. I coincidentally moved to the same town as you. What if they question my professionalism when you were my client? What if they don’t believe how this,” he motions between us, “started? Not to mention, I’m nearly a decade older than you.” Okay, now putting it that way makes him sound so much older. “After I was asked for an interview, I thought about what it could mean for me to move here. I knew I would have to tell them, but they didn’t know you were a former client. What they needed to know is that you’re a current student. Your parents finding out will be a completely different beast.”
Trace squeezes his neck harder and it hits me as I realize what’s happening. He has a tell. I squeeze my wrist; he squeezes the back of his neck. Then it really hits me. Trace is having a panic attack. Oh, my god. While I know that anxiety and depression can go hand-in-hand, Trace has never, not once, mentioned he also dealt with anxiety. Only depression.
“If they don’t believe it, they could ruin my career.” Now, he’s talking more to himself than me. It’s like he’s checked out, even though he’s looking at me. I reach over, pull his hand away, and squeeze it. “Why in the hell didn’t I consider that?” he continues. “I swore I thought of everything, and of course, I didn’t.”
“Trace,” I interrupt sternly. He blinks twice. “Stop it. My parents are open-minded people. If they weren’t, I never would’ve seen a therapist in the first place. I’m not telling them any time soon, but when I do, they’ll understand as long as I explain it right.”
“As long as you explain it right? Great,” he huffs.
I drop his hand. Did he seriously just say that to me? Obviously, I’m incompetent to explain us to my parents, right? Before my anger gets out of hand, I remind myself that he’s probably still panicking and his words are a reflection of that—not of what he actually thinks of me. I take a deep breath and calmly say, “My parents won’t find out in the foreseeable future, Trace.” Considering that I try not to think too far ahead, it’s totally plausible. “If a time comes when I’ll need to tell them, then I will. If you’re worried about it, you can be there or be the one who tells them instead of me.” To hopefully end this, I finish by throwing his own words back at him. “One day at a time.”
He nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. My career is extremely important to me, and I don’t want to do something that could jeopardize it. Or have someone think I did do something.”
“I get it.” And I do.
We sit in silence for a moment. The waitress checks on us and Trace asks for the bill; it seems we’ve both lost our appetites. The fried pickles go to waste. What disturbs me even more is Trace. He’s quiet, lost in his own head, and most likely, he’s still worrying. So far, with this thing we have going on, he’s never really pulled away from me. Although, the opportunity hasn’t been there before either. That scares the hell out of me. He’s my rock, always has been. How am I supposed to stay steady and strong with him cracking?
When we walk outside and he goes to open the passenger door for me, I stop him. “Trace,” I start, but no other words come.
He sighs. The cold air is making his breath visible. “I know, Britt. I know.” He pulls me against him and wraps his arms around me. I’m glad he knows because I sure don’t. My head rests on his chest, my arms firmly around him, and I relish in the feel of his big, strong, sturdy body. We stand there in silence for about a minute. “It’s going to be hard, you know.”
“Why?” Why does it have to be hard? Why does everything have to be so damn hard all the damn time?
“Because we’re both not quite sane,” he says with a half-sigh and half-serious tone.
I can’t help it; I laugh. I turn my face inward to press my forehead against his jacket, and I can’t stop freaking giggling. We’re not crazy; but he’s right. We’re not quite sane either. With a large smile, I tilt my head back to see Trace with one of his own.
His head dips down and I lean up on my tiptoes to at least try to meet him halfway. A flutter of disappointment hits me when he only rests his forehead against mine.
“In a way, it’s a good thing,” he adds.
“It is?”
“Yep. All the good stuff never comes easy.”
“But we will get to the good stuff, right?”
“We will,” he confirms.
“Can we go ahead and get some of the good stuff now? Like, say, a kiss, for example?” I grin.
Trace grins, too, but he doesn’t kiss me yet. “You could take a kiss,” he tells me.
“Yeah, but I want you to give it to me.” It hits me then just how much I want him to give me. I want him to give me peace, comfort, his time, friendship, and something more than friendship. I don’t want to take it. It’s so much sweeter when he wants to give it to me. I take enough from him during my moments of panic and depression.
He studies me for a moment. Then, he presses those lips to mine. It’s slow, reassuring almost. There’s strength in the movements of his mouth and tongue. It’s a leisurely kind of kiss that could go on for days while nursing the growing and scorching fire between us. I lift higher on my toes, my arms going around his neck as I try to meld him against me and deepen the kiss, nipping on his lower lip. He groans low into my mouth. Maybe I can take from him after all.
