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I don’t understand how this woman reads me so easily when I’ve spent so long making sure no one can ever read me in detail.
“How is it,” I deflect, “that you see the shit I can’t stand to look at?”
“We’re never objective about ourselves. Sometimes we look past the things we really need to deal with.” Almost shyly, her fingers curl against my wrist, this anchor holding me to the light so I can’t slide into the darkness. “Do you want to talk about what’s on your mind?”
I shouldn’t.
I should remind her that we’re not even technically friends, barely even colleagues, strictly employer and employee playing our parts.
But I can’t do that to her.
I can’t be so cruel when she’s offering her kindness.
Even if Elle were someone I loathed, my sense of fairness wouldn’t allow it.
Still, I don’t know how to say these words either. They’re just feelings I’ve been holding on to for so long without ever unpacking them, laying them out, looking at them clearly so I can grind them to a pulp.
It’s grief. It’s resentment. It’s confusion, frustration, an urge to lash out and punch the past until it’s no longer a threat.
More than anything, it’s guilt.
I stare into those golden brown eyes a minute longer, then look away.
Somehow, it’s easier to be honest when I’m speaking to the glittery Seattle skyline, rather than to the lovely woman sitting across from me, asking for the tiniest sliver of my heart.
Where the fuck do I even start?
“I’m sure you know the rumors about my dead wife,” I tell her.
“I don’t. You asked me not to pry, remember? So I resisted every urge to google and practically taped Lena’s mouth shut.”
Those soft words almost force me to look back at her, surprise rippling through me.
“You did?”
“I mean ... I wasn’t going to hurt you that way. It seemed serious.” Her mouth twists into a small, self-deprecating smile. “It’s not a hard request to honor.”
Is she even for real?
The girl has no clue how many people would disagree.
How many people who make a hobby, an art out of feasting on the delicacy of others’ miseries.
Elle reaches across the table again, offering me her outstretched hand with her palm up and her fingers curled invitingly.
“Did you want to tell me about her, August?”
I don’t know who I am right now.
Gone is the man who would have looked at that hand scornfully and rejected it outright in a crude attempt to deny any need for human comfort.
All I am right now is shattered ceramic, sharp and cold and broken.
I’ll admit I might need that hand to hold what’s left of me together.
Still, it’s damnably hard to reach for her.
Hard to cross my own boundaries and move, until my fingertips rest in her palm, leaving subtle indents in her soft flesh.
