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16
SAGE
That was definitely the most intense grocery shopping experience of my life. I mean, I like cheese. I might even love it, but Grayson is on a whole different level. I did what I could to keep everything light and fun, but he’s intense about making things perfect.
What things? All the things. Things for our date tomorrow. I mean, I’m just going to his house. We’re hanging out.
How do I tell him it’s fine just like it is? He doesn’t have to worry. He doesn’t have to work so hard. Is he trying to impress me? Because I’m already impressed.
Between the dairy tour and work, I have about an hour to get ready, and I know what I should do.
I should exercise.
I should call my mom.
I should pack up something to eat for dinner.
I should sweep the living room floor.
I should shower.
If you’re betting on which of those things I choose, you’re going to be disappointed.
Because I do none of them.
Instead, I go into my room, close the door, make sure the blinds are pulled down, and stare at the closed violin case on my bed.
The staring lasts a long time. Eventually I move close enough to pick the case up again, and it feels as good as it felt last night, the weight of the protective case hinting at the delicate, balanced instrument inside.
I find myself flipping one of the clasps open and closed, open and closed until the snap begins to irritate me.
“Just open it,” I say aloud, as if someone else was in my apartment, ready to take direction about my violin case.
I might be losing my mind.
Okay, not really. My mind is fine. But I am definitely losing my surety that I’ll never play this instrument again.
I lay the case on the bed again, and I sit down beside it. My right hand rests on the top of the case, fingers spread as though I’m checking for a heartbeat.
There’s no heartbeat, because this is not a haunted violin case. I slide my fingers over to the clasps and just flip them open. Unlatched. Good. That wasn’t so hard.
But now the case is practically calling out to be opened. And again, nobody’s here but me.
And it’s not like I can’t do it. Of course I can. I’m totally capable. I can lift the lid. I can lay it out flat against my bedspread, just to look.
Instead I step away from the bed and stand with my back to the wall.
I rub the skin under my eyes. I’m a little itchy, so that’s great. I bet I’m allergic to cows. And goats. And the kind of sheep that make the kind of milk that makes that really good cheese.
I wonder if Grayson can do an allergy test.
Probably not, and I’m probably not actually allergic. But just in case, I’ll take some antihistamines.
I don’t move toward the medicine cabinet. I don’t move at all.
I stand with my back to the wall feeling my heartrate increase and the backs of my knees start to sweat.
Those are fear responses.
