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“I have a hard time accepting help, and that’s because I always need it, and I hate that.”
I can hear the frustration she’s trying to hide in her voice. “All Luna’s life, I’ve tried so hard to do things on my own because I’m not the only single mother in the world. So many do it so well with no help at all, and yet it seems every time I think we’re doing well, something happens that requires someone stepping in to help me.”
“So, you’ve had some struggles…” I coax, very cautiously. “Whatever they are, they can’t be your fault.”
“They are though,” she voices as she fiddles with the straw in her drink. She takes a deep breath before finally looking up at me. “Look, I hate to heap such a heavy load on you, but with the way my life is, I don’t have time to play games with anyone. I have to lay it all out, and if the person can’t handle it, then we should both move on. I’m… a recovering addict.”
Okay. I seriously didn’t see that coming. Kasey looks like she’s got it all together, which I know is possible for someone with addiction, just sadly, it’s not the majority.
Working in the ER, I saw a wide-spread lack of compassion for people that came in for drug or alcohol related problems, and I tried not to be one of them. When treating someone under those circumstances, I always tried to remain open-minded and remind myself that I didn’t know their story. But I admit it would get hard when I’d see repeat patients who weren’t even trying. I already know that Kasey definitely tries, but more than that, she’s proof of success, and I have a whole new level of respect for her.
“Struggling with addiction is not your fault,” I tell her.
“No, I have my father to thank for that wonderful gene,” she says cynically, playing with her straw again. “But the mistakes I’ve allowed it to let me make, those are on me. And Luna has paid the price for the fallout. Lucky for both of us, she doesn’t remember.”
I don’t comment on that because I know it will seem patronizing, no matter how much I believe it’s still not her fault.
“I wasn’t there, but whatever happened, you’ve taken steps to rectify it. I don’t have to have known you a while to see that. And that’s more than I can say for most.”
She looks up and gives me a warm, appreciative smile.
“Luna’s really attached to you…” she softly switches gears, “and you don’t live here. It’s going to be hard on her when you go back home,” she starts to explain.
The wordhomecauses a sinking feeling in my gut, and I realize it’s because I don’t actually have one. I’ve been living in another part of the world, but it’s not my home. I don’t think I could even call my boat that. I nod thoughtfully at what she’s saying.
“I get that,” I respond tenderly. “I’m pretty fond of her, too.”And her mom sure is doing something to me.
“And she’s not the only one,” she adds as she nervously starts to fidget, and my heart rate picks up at the idea of what she means.
“Look, these conversations suck, and I’m so embarrassed, but like I said, I don’t have the time to waste on mind games. And the truth is, somewhere between you coming in to look in on Luna after her accident and cutting your hair, I developed feelings for you.”
My heart is hammering hard in my chest to the point that I feel it resounding throughout my body. So many thoughts go racing through my head, and though I try to catch each one by the tail, it’s near impossible.
She has feelings for me.
How does this make me feel?
I like her too, I definitely feel something.
I want to be around her all the time.
Is it okay to feel that way? Should I feel guilty?
Why have feelings now? For her? What is it about her?
She’s so determined to stand on her own. She’s good to her family and child.
She’s kind and friendly, yet non-invasive.
And yes, fuck, she’s beautiful. Inside and out.
And after everything she told me, she’s so fucking strong.
“So,” she lets out a sigh like she’s in a hurry to wrap up her testimony, “that combined with you giving so much when I can only give so much back, just makes me feel inadequate and insecure.”
She looks at me nervously, not saying anything else. As patient as always, she simply waits, for me to make any kind of response, nibbling her lower lip with nerves when I don’t say anything immediately. I want to answer her, but she deserves a real response, one that comes after I’ve processed everything; after this whirlwind of thoughts and emotions I’m not used to settles down and they come together to form one.
I yearn to touch her, and without thinking, I stretch my hand out to her on the table, palm up. I still can’t form appropriate words for what I’m thinking.
