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Once the old man had gone behind the door, I plucked Dean’s arm off me and gave him a look.
“What?” he asked. “If we’re always stiff around each other, people are going to get suspicious. The stakes are higher now, right? Your family is here. I’m guessing they’re going to pick up on your body language a lot quicker than strangers or co-workers. So, try to act like you like it when I touch you. And maybe even initiate some things so it doesn’t look too one-sided.”
“Yeah, sorry. You’re right,” I said. The way he spoke about it made it sound like he wasn’t at all worried about feelings getting confused if we got too touchy-feely with each other. I didn’t want to admit I was still worried about it, so I decided to play it cool.
I stuck my hand out for him to take. He grinned and laced his fingers with mine. “See? That’s better,” he said.
“Mhm,” I said, trying very hard not to focus my attention on how my hand felt in his as we headed for the stairs.
It was only one more week. One more week of surviving the constant storm of conflicting feelings I felt around him. One more week of trying to trick all the people I cared about because I’d been too much of a coward to simply tell them to back off when they played matchmaker. But I wasn’t sure that was the whole story. I’d been thinking more about what made me agree to something so crazy, and I wondered if there was more. Maybe it was that I didn’t want the people who cared about me to see how much I was hurting. If I’d admitted I was swearing off men for the foreseeable future, they’d realize what Eric’s cheating had done. They’d worry about me.
I didn’t want that. I did enough worrying on my own without bringing other people into the mix.
Dean stopped at the base of the stairs. “What’s bothering you?” he asked.
“Huh? Nothing.”
Ignoring my words, he turned and took both my hands in his, meeting my eyes. “Take a few deep breaths with me. You’ll feel better. In,” he said, sucking in an exaggerated breath through his nose. “Out.” He said, blowing it out through his mouth. His breath was minty and cold.
I worked my lips to the side, considered pulling away, and then finally gave in. I joined him on his next round of breaths. After three rounds, I admittedly felt much better.
Dean apparently could tell, because he gave my hand a little squeeze and turned, heading up the stairs.
“Dean?” I said.
“Yeah?” he stopped, half turning with my hand still in his.
“It’s really nice. The way you help me when you can tell I’m freaking out a little. Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “And if you do, I’ll help you calm down again,” he added with a smirk.
I grinned. “I know. And I appreciate it.”
“Good. Now tell me something you don’t like about me.”
“What? Why?”
“Because when you get all sweet like that it makes me start thinking thoughts I don’t want to be thinking.”
“What kind of thoughts?”
We were standing in the middle of an old fashioned, wood-paneled stairway. It was a strange place to have a conversation, but I barely noticed because I was hanging on his every word.
He pursed his lips. “You sure you want me to answer that?”
“I do.”
“Thoughts like how I enjoyed road tripping with you. Or how it feels good to take care of you when you need it, and how it also feels good when you’re like a firecracker and want to bust my balls. Just how being around you feels good, I guess. And when you’re being all sweet like that, it’s harder to turn those thoughts off. So tell me something you don’t like about me. Help me hit the off switch.”
I almost asked him why he wanted to turn those thoughts off. Almost. But that was one of those many doors where danger was waiting on the other side. Danger. Uncertainty. Risk. It was all on the other side of that door if I asked the question burning on my tongue, so I did what I seemed to always do: I took the coward’s path.
“Okay,” I said. “Umm. I don’t like how easy you make it for people to like you.”
He laughed. “What kind of insult is that?”
“I don’t know!” I couldn’t help smiling a little. “Tell me something you don’t like about me, then. Maybe give me some ideas and I’ll try again.”
He leaned against the railing at the edge of the stairs, arms crossed as he studied the ceiling in thought. “Okay. Got one. I don’t like when you won’t trust yourself. Sometimes I can tell you’re going into panic mode because you think you can’t handle something. But every time you trust yourself, you absolutely kill it. Like that balloon popping game at the hotel in Asheville. You were about to lose your shit, and then you went up there and pulled that? I mean, you’re the last person who should be doubting herself.”
