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I’m more than pleased to hear that.
I think about prompting her,‘Why should you not have liked it?’but I know why she’d think that, plus there’s something precarious about that question—there’s an opening for her to really start thinking about how she’s been acting with me. Even saying,‘There’s nothing wrong with liking holding my hand,’could send her into her head, and getting into her head is not something I want her to do. I’m not even sure,‘Me, too,’would be a good response. I don’t want her to overthink, because then she’ll back away even sooner than I’m already not-ready for her to.
So I say something different: “I wish I could make your pain better, too.”
Her fingers go still again. She looks at them without really seeing them, I think—she looks like she has dipped into thought after all. But I’m not worried, because her expression is growing lighter by the moment.
“In a way,” she murmurs at length, “you do.”
The words send warmth spreading through me.
They’re the truest of compliments, because I can’t imagine there are very many ways to make suffering like hers less horrible.
“When you listen to me,” she goes on even more softly, “and when you…comfort me…my memories feeljusta little less excruciating.”
God, my heart.
Matching her tone, I tell her, “I’m really happy to hear that.” Then I add belatedly, “You do make me hurt less, too, you know.”
She flashes a small smile at her hands. “Really?”
“Always have. Started that one day outside the elevator. You weren’t eventryingto make me feel better and you still managed it.”
Her smile grows shyer but bigger.
I have the overwhelming urge to touch her again, to keep making her see the beautiful side of life, ofus—
—and before I can talk myself into or out of it, she untangles one of her hands from the other and wraps it around mine, which I’ve had lying listlessly on the table.
Her voice is almost tight when she speaks now, I guess from embarrassment: “I know I said I liked this too much the first time, but I feel the real need to do it again.”
I wonder if she has any idea what she’s doing to me.
Anyidea.
Like, even the tiniest, wispiest one.
I wish she would look at me, but I don’t ask her to. I just tell her, “I don’t mind at all.”
Her free fingers curl and uncurl…I daresay like she wishes she could touch me with them, too.
Another thing I don’t ask her to do.
I’ve had a fucking good day with her, and I need to quit while I’m ahead.
No, I should say I need tochill outwhile I’m ahead.
QuittingLiv-Andria McKellar…
…well, that’s something I can’t do.
|| 13 || Liv-Andria
“All right,” I sigh with a smile as Rae and I look at our reflections in the bathroom mirror. “Compliment time.”
She adjusts her pink princess pajama top, which she’s gotten really good at buttoning by herself, and then puts her elbows on the counter, her chin in her hands.
After she gazes thoughtfully at her reflection, she says, “Rae, you did a good job today when you helped with the dishes. You didn’t drop anything at all.”
