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I felt lost.
What am I doing here?
I sucked in big lungfuls of air as soon as we hit the sidewalk. Michael refused to let my hand go and walked on the side of the footpath closest to the road.
I felt protected.
I felt safe.
This was why I was here.
He opened the passenger door of his car and held my hand as I got into it. The black Commodore gleamed under the street lights — not a speck of dirt on it. I stroked the leather seats as I watched him round the bonnet, his tie flapping in the breeze as he rushed to be with me.
The car roared to life, and Avril Lavigne’sSk8er Boysounded out of the speakers.
“You likeSk8er Boy?” I asked.
He flicked a glance at me.
“What, you think I’d only listen to the BeeGees?”
I laughed.
“You don’t seem like the pop-punk kinda guy,” I said.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he said. “But I hope you’ll stick around and find out.”
I said nothing, turning my attention out the window; unable to give him what he wanted.
He reached over and held my hand. I told myself to let go, but I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
Nerves assailed me as we approached my flat. My breaths sped up. I wanted to wring my hands, but Michael still held one firmly in his own.
It grounded me while it conversely frightened me.
Why did he have to feel so good?
He walked me to my door, like some old fashioned gentleman.
He kissed me like he didn’t have a gentlemanly bone in his body.
I almost invited him in.
He smiled down at me as if he knew already.
With one last squeeze of my fingers, he said, “Sweet dreams, Trolley Girl.” And then turned and walked back to his car.
This was good, I told myself.
This was safe; no pressure.
I almost called him back to me.
This.Thiswas why I was here.
Michael made me feel when I’d been so numb for so very long.
Michael woke me up again.
