10. Callum #3
She clears her throat. “Um, since that didn’t work out great last time, I was wondering if… I was wondering if I could touch you.”
I know my answer. But I slowly turn toward her, wanting to see the consent on her face. When our eyes lock, the sheer hopefulness in hers makes me dizzy. It feels like I could grab the tension straight out of the air between us and hug it to my chest.
“Yes, Pey.” My voice comes out low and throaty. “You can touch me.”
“Just your hand… I want to rest my hand on yours, if that’s okay. If I can.”
God, I hope she can.
“I promise not to hurt you this time. I’m buckled, see?” She points to her fastened seatbelt, giving me a weak grin. “Limited range of motion, so.”
I can tell she’s replaying what happened, and I don’t want her to feel bad about it. She’s not the sum of her negative experiences.
Trying to bring some light back into her eyes, I deadpan, “Don’t worry about it. After your attack, I read up on martial arts. According to an online quiz, I’m better prepared to defend myself against you now.”
“You are so fucking weird,” she mumbles between giggles.
The light teasing doesn’t last for long. When I turn down the music to a soft hum, she says, “So, how do you think this will go?”
“Are you asking if I think it’ll go good or bad?”
She shakes her head. “No, um, I-I think one of the problems before was that I never knew when I would be touched and in what way. It was always so… unexpected. And there was an unwritten rule that once I touched him, he’d get to touch me.”
I think I understand what Peyton’s asking. She wants to know what I’ll do once she initiates touch. No surprises. And I deeply relate to that feeling. Being prepared reduces my anxiety around my own potential triggers.
I nod, then say, “I’ll put my hand on the center console between us, palm down.
After you rest your hand on mine, I won’t move unless you ask me.
I’ll stay completely still until you’re ready.
Then I’ll put my hand back in my lap.” I place my hand on the center console, exactly where I said I would.
She chews on her lower lip. “Okay. That sounds, um, good.”
I hold her gaze. “Peyton. It’s important to me that you know I’d never touch you without your permission.”
She hums, and relief flashes in her eyes. “I’m ready now.”
It takes her about thirty seconds to separate her hand from her thigh. When she does, her outstretched fingers move slowly. A wave of nerves washes over my body—not for myself, but for her. I really want this to go well. I haven’t felt so strongly about anything—anyone—in what feels like forever.
Before I can process it, Peyton’s palm is resting against my skin. My skin. She doesn’t flinch. Her hand is warm and soft, and it blankets mine in a way that’s world-changing. My heart beats rapidly, but my mind quiets. All I can think about is her touch.
After a few minutes, her fingers move. They gently clasp my wrist and turn my hand over before settling back on top, palm-to-palm. This time… this time, it feels like we’re holding hands.
And I think about how there are around ten thousand hands in Waterton, but Peyton Moore wants to hold mine.
My throat bobs, and I’m entirely focused on her.
But her attention remains squarely on our hands.
I feel a drop of warm water on the side of my wrist, and when Peyton lifts her chin, I realize it was a tear.
Her eyes glisten, and another one slides down her cheek.
Every muscle in my body wants to wipe it away, but I want her to count on my word, so I stay still.
I’m only calm on the surface, though. Underneath my skin, I’m buzzing with energy. Pride zips around my ribcage, and when it travels to my heart, it feels a lot like happiness. Pure, unadulterated happiness.
“How are we feeling, Pey?” I ask gently.
“I’m feeling… I never thought I could feel… Thank you.” She removes her hand from mine and reaches up, maybe to swipe the tear, but it drips off her chin and onto her scarf before she has the chance to catch it.
I don’t want to overwhelm the moment, but I also don’t want to lose my courage. It sounds elementary, and I can’t name it yet, but something changed when we held hands. At least, it did for me.
“Can we do this again?” I ask.
“Hold hands?”
“Yeah. Can we do it again?”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
Peyton lets out a watery laugh. “Yeah. I think we can hold hands again tomorrow.”
“Solid Grounds cafe at noon sound good to you?”
“That actually sounds great, Callum.”
I nod and get out of the truck, jogging to her side and opening her door.
She hops out. “I like that, by the way.”
“Like what?”
“Pey. When you called me Pey. I’ve never had a nickname before,” she whispers.
“I’ve never given someone a nickname before,” I muse.
When we reach the front of her building, I keep things simple. “I can’t wait to run into you again.”
“Same.” She smiles, closing the door behind her.
I know Zebra’s waiting for me back at home. There’s laundry to do, and I should really get to bed. But I’m too unfocused to start the truck.
How can I concentrate on anything else, when my skin still carries the sensation of her touch?