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GWENNA
His moods remind me of an ocean. It’s a pattern I remember from my own PTSD and I still know sometimes: crest then trough, crest then trough…
I’m good at feeling his. Maybe only good at troughs. His crests are smooth and sometimes small: like when he wrapped his arms around me from behind, before we ended up tangled on the floor.
I can feel the trough over my shoulder as I pour the cake batter. It’s like a disappearance, even though he’s still right here. I can tell for sure I’m right—he’s gone away somewhere—because when I cut my eyes at him, his don’t meet mine. His face is vacant and his body seems too still.
It’s like our traumas are swirled together, because every time I sense this happening to him, I start sweating and my heart pounds. As soon as I can sit the batter bowl down, I turn around and take his hands and squeeze them tightly, tight enough so his gaze lifts to mine.
“Can you finish this for me? One of the egg shells cut my hand.” It’s true. I turn my hand so he can see the small cut on the outside.
He blinks slowly at me. “Yeah.”
God, I love his voice—that low, sweet voice.
I wash my hands and lean against the counter as I tell him how to pour the batter for the other layers of the cake. It makes me glad to see his eyes on his hands, his body moving steady in the present.
I pre-heat the oven and we slide the round pans in.
“Now for the icing.” I turn a slow circle, trying to think of where I put my big bag of sugar. “Sugar, sugar… Laundry room.” I hold a finger up, but Barrett moves past me.
“I’ve got it,” he says quietly.
I’m holding my breath as he opens the door.
I watch as he stops in the doorway. He turns to me.
“Gwenna.” His voice is very soft. He turns back to the laundry room.
“I moved them into the garage. No biggie.”
He looks back at me, and he reminds me of these horses from the stables where I rode when I was younger. His eyes are kind of wide and leery, like he might buck and run. I move slowly over to him.
I take his wrists in my hands. Turn his palms over. I trace his fingers and his palms and look into his pretty eyes.
“Have you ever had your palm read?”
He smiles, small and slightly pained. “In Hindi.”
“Sit down.”
He does, and I sit in the chair beside his. I take one of his hands and trace my fingers gently over his palm. “You have big hands.”
I look up to find him smirking.
I smile and roll my eyes. “Pervert.”
His brows arch. He chuckles. “I’m the pervert?”
My face flushes. “Yes. You were thinking something like that.”
“Something like what?” His hand squeezes mine as he gives me a small, dimpled smile.
“I’m not going to spell it out.”
“I don’t even know what you would spell.” He makes this little “o” with his mouth and arches his brows, looking like a surprised owl.
“Shut up.” I smack his hand gently. “You let me do my thing now.” I trace a fingertip over his warm palm. “Glad to say, your lines look pretty good. Your life line is nice and long. Looks like your health’s not perfect, but it doesn’t suck. Maybe kind of what I’d think. Couple bumps in the road. Probably most of the stuff already happened. And this one…” I trace the children lines and give him what I hope is not a sad smile. “Two kids.”
