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The blue one saysYes! I can do this. Be Quiet. Be Calm. Be Kindis painted across the green one. The yellow one readsFocus. Listen. Breathe.
“They’ll fit in your suitcase when you travel. You should be able to slip one in a suit pocket without it being too conspicuous. It’s perfect.”
I’m not sure how much good squeezing a round bit of foam will actually do me, but she’s doing her best. For her sake, I owe her the same.
I palm the blue one, giving it a firm mashing with my fingers. Actually…it’s kind of tactilely interesting. “Sure.”
“Oh, I forgot something else.” Harlow dashes upstairs and returns moments later with a shallow rectangular box. “You should use this every day.”
When I open the lid, I see a brown leather journal. It’s well made and masculine but… “You want me to write down my thoughts and feelings?”
She nods. “I know what you’re going to say: Why am I doing this? My brothers would laugh and complain this much reflection isn’t alpha male enough for them, too. But hear me out. Since this is a new phenomenon for you, I think it behooves us to keep track of your mood, surroundings, and conditions when you start to have a situation that makes you feel panicked and start to shut down. If we’re keeping track of everything, it’s possible we’ll find patterns and can help you avoid places or people that trigger you.”
It sounds kind of horrible to spend time every day in self-reflection, but I guess not doing it is how I managed to waste months vacillating between denial and relative agony before I finally decided to do something. And it’s taken extra time to pin down what bothers me and when it bothers me…and maybe she has a good point about being precise and helping myself avoid shitty situations.
“All right. I will see if I can find my deep-seated emotions or whatever will help me and put them down on paper.”
“Thanks. If you try writing every morning, even just for five minutes, you’ll feel better that you’ve purged anything that may be bothering you. If you still have residual tension after that and yoga, then you can squeeze your balls.” She winks. “The foam ones. But hey, if you’d rather squeeze the ones between your legs…”
“Nope, I’m good.”
She laughs. “I also have some aromatherapy candles on their way. Citrus scents should help calm you by increasing the amount of norepinephrine in your system. They’re small, so you’ll be able to take them with you to games if you need one. And if your peer in the broadcasting booth doesn’t mind.”
I can only imagine how many sportscasters and play-by-play guys will flat out laugh at my fruity candles. But you know… Fuck them if they would rather give me crap than help me succeed.
“Thanks, Harlow. Really. I’m not sure how much of this I’ll like or will stick, but you’re making me step outside my comfort zone to see what might make my life more livable. I appreciate that.”
Her smile is slow and looks relieved. “You’re welcome. I really do want to help.”
“I know. I appreciate your effort.” I take her hand. “I wish you’d let me help you, too.”
Her mouth twists. “What do you mean?”
“Get you through whatever has convinced you that love isn’t possible for you. That there’s nothing more than sex and common goals between us.”
She looks away. “We have other things to do today. I have this crossword app you can download, which should help divert your thoughts when you feel them seizing up. I also hear that getting a pet—”
“Harlow, listen.” I take her shoulders in hand. “Nothing is more important to me than helping you.”
“I’m fine. Besides, you don’t owe me anything else. You’re already paying me.”
“I’m not trying to exchange favors here. I’m trying to open up your world so you can see what you and I have together is special.”
Her eyes slide shut. “Don’t go falling for me, Noah.”
“It’s too late.” I swallow and go for broke. “I love you.”
The following morning dawns. I roll over, not surprised to find Harlow gone. I remember her beside me for at least a few hours. After the abrupt end of our conversation, she retreated outside with music and her earbuds. I didn’t expect her to sleep beside me, but she did. And she woke me wanting to make love—fevered, clinging, silent. Emotion pinged off of her, vibrated in every touch. I wanted so badly for her to talk to me, for the intimacy to be a prelude to her admitting that she has feelings for me. Instead, she wordlessly shouted at me with her body. All I could do was hold her, tell her mutely that I’m here for her and hope she’d understand. Hope that she’d open up to me.
After the sex, I conked out, so I don’t know if she slept the rest of the night beside me. I certainly don’t know where she is right now.
I drag my ass out of bed and realize it’s after nine. After a quick brush of teeth and groping around for some clothes, I jog downstairs. I don’t hear anything—no music from the kitchen, no rattling around of pots and pans, no ethereal video game music. Hell, I don’t even hear the ocean, which means she hasn’t yet opened the patio doors. That’s not like her. Downstairs, the lights are off, the blinds closed.
Harlow is nowhere.
Heart thudding, dread gripping me, I dash up the stairs, charging to the bedroom she used to occupy alone. Has she packed up and slipped out? Was I getting too close? Was it too much, and she decided to flee?
At the top of the landing, I thrust open the door to find her belongings exactly where she left them. The woman herself is sitting on a chair in the corner of the balcony, looking out over the mountains that rise up in the center of the island. With one hand, she’s gripping the arm of the chair so tightly I wonder if she’s using it to keep herself upright. I can’t see what she’s doing with the other.
