“Not with her.”
“So what are the two of you going to do later?” she asks.
“She’s at the dance studio now, so we’re just gonna grab a coffee afterward.”
“And how’s work been going?”
“Same as usual. What about you?”
When she starts talking about some fundraiser that she went to with her sister, I lose focus as my eyes shift to the stack of mattes that are still lying on my floor. The photos that Candace had been looking at last week.
“Well, I better let you go. I just wanted to check in,” she says as she pulls my attention back to her.
“I love you, Mom. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Love you too, dear.”
Shoving my phone into my pocket, I walk over to the photos and grab them. It seems like forever ago when I shot these when really it was only four months back. I was so distracted then, but now . . . now I feel focused. I’m not quite sure if anything will ever happen with Candace, but I love spending time with her regardless. But, God, I do hope that something will happen. I’ve never had to fight for a girl’s attention or affection, but this one . . . she makes me work, and I find myself liking it.
I take the photos back to my office and shove them inside my credenza, not wanting to think about that time—about all those women. Sliding the door shut, I turn to get some work done—anything to kill time while I wait to see Candace.
Pulling into the studio lot, I park next to Candace’s car. Stepping out, I take a moment to enjoy the chill in the December air. The dark clouds roll through the misty sky.
My eyes dart to the doors when I hear them bang open and see her storming out. She’s upset—frustrated—and when she looks at me, she freezes, startled to see me, with tears streaming down her cheeks. When I rush over to her, she quickly wipes her face with her hands, trying to hide what she knows I already see.
She drops her head, but I catch it with my hands, cupping her cheeks as I tilt it up for her to look at me. “What happened?”
“Nothing, honestly. Just a tough rehearsal.” Her voice trembles as she speaks, and seeing her this upset has something panging inside of me that I’m not used to—protectiveness.
I look down at her as a few tears seep out of her eyes, and I wipe them away with my thumbs. When I do this, I feel her tension melt, and she falls into my chest, wrapping her arms around my waist. This unexpected affection is like a reward I’ve been waiting so patiently for. And here it is. Sliding my arms around her, I hold her close, and she doesn’t flinch away from me. I can feel her body relax, and when this happens, I lean down and rest my cheek on top of her head.
She sniffs and I know she’s crying. Having her like this, in my arms, is an intimacy that’s completely foreign but comfortable. I’m sure she can hear my heart pounding, but I need her to hear it. I need her to feel it as it thuds in my chest because I need her to hear me falling for her, ‘cause that’s what’s happening here—I’m falling. I never wanted to before, but with her, all I want to do is fall. Fall into her. Fall so deep inside of her heart so that I never have to be without her. That’s what this girl does to me. That’s how powerful she is even when she thinks she’s at her weakest. She’s broken. I see it clearly, but whatever it is that’s haunting her, I wanna make it fade. I wanna make it fade and make her fall too—with me.
When she begins to pull away from me, I selfishly want to tighten my hold on her and keep her like this for a little longer. I worry this was just a random need for comfort from her, that I won’t get this again, that she doesn’t feel what I know I’m starting to. Fuck, this hurts.
She looks up at me, and I ask again because I need to. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
With no words, she simply nods. Unwilling to take my hands off of her, I step to her side with my arm around her shoulders and lead her to my car. She doesn’t question me as I help her up into the seat. When I get in, her eyes are closed, so I don’t turn on the stereo. I let her relax and drive her to my place, wanting her in my space. I watch her at every red light I hit. I turn on the heater because I know she has to be freezing, wearing nothing but long, baggy black pants with her pale pink leotard. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun and everything about her is screaming that she’s way out of my league. Way too refined for me.
Her eyes open when I pull into my drive. She rolls her head towards me, and we watch each other for a moment before I get out of the car and open her door.
When we go upstairs, she gets comfortable on my couch as I grab a water for her from the kitchen. Walking back, I sit close to her while she gulps the water down.
“Feeling better?” I ask as I take the bottle from her and set it on the coffee table.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. After being yelled at for two hours, I just . . .”
Needing that affection back, I wrap my arm around her and pull her in tightly next to me, and again, she allows it. “Don’t worry,” I tell her because I want her to show me this side of her—a side I know she hides.
“No . . . It’s embarrassing.”
“Don’t let it be.”
As she shifts forward, she turns to look at me. “Can I ask you a huge favor?”
“Anything.”
“Do you have a dry shirt I can change into?” she asks with a coy smile. “I’ve been dancing for the past few hours, and I’m sweaty and stinky.”