Chapter 18 #3
“Yes, sir, Doc! Ice, ice, baby!” I salute him, then wave a hand and yell, “Let’s go, my littles!
I never want to be at a wrist-related clinic thing again.
” My overzealous wave sends shocks of pain down my arm, and I wince.
“This does still suck,” I say, totally full of piss and vinegar.
“Why does it still hurt so much? I hate everything about my body.”
Dave is soon behind me, walking me outside and whispering, “I certainly don’t hate everything about your body.” His hands set against my waist, and he whispers in my ear, “Or anything.”
He’s lucky I don’t trip.
“Get a room, you two.” Anjanette directs her broad smile at David. “Oh, that’s right; you have a room. Because you’re living together.”
Both of us go silent as we stumble for a few feet.
“We’re not living together,” I say emphatically. “Like, not living together, living together intentionally. Right?”
It seems I have to ask him to confirm this.
Dave nods. “Yes. It’s been circumstantial.”
Anj does a fake-shrug thing. “Of course. So, circumstantial, even while there’s a second bedroom at the Airbnb? Gotcha. I can see how you’re forced to sleep together,” she says without hiding her laugh. “Platonically.”
“It’s not very platonic,” I holler out. “Like, it was, but now, not at all!”
“Yeah, I think she got that.”
More gently, Anj asks, “You taking her home?”
“To pack her arm on ice, yes,” he answers. “And stop it with that gleeful face. It’s overly exuberant.” Dave ushers me to the passenger seat and buckles me in, unable to hide his mixed groan-laugh.
Her cheering and joyous voice echoes as she basically skis over to her car. “Goddamn! I love this all for you both so much! Talks about living together? No conking anyone on the head with a cast while not platonically sharing a bed? It’s too cute.”
Just as Dave puts the car into gear, Anj slams her car next to us, her window down and a mischievous smile at the ready.
Dave sighs and lowers his window to meet hers. “Jesus. Now what?”
“Don’t forget to check on your house. I hear the renovations are just about done.” She speeds away before he can reply.
“Stop spying on me!” he calls out weakly, then mutters, “Damn small towns.”
“Your house is all fixed up?” I ask.
My head is all boozy and dizzy, but I’m hopeful for him, as it was clear during my mini-tour how much he loved his house. His home.
“Not yet. Soon. Soonish.”
“I think …” Now I feel sort of shy and hesitant, but still, I suggest, “Maybe we could shift there from the Airbnb? I mean, if you want to. Maybe you want to move back there by yourself. That’s okay, too, obviously.” My stammering is embarrassing. “Just … that place is your real home.”
Dave looks confused, and so I let him have a minute.
My phone sounds, and I have to quickly respond to the message from Jia, my savior, who got me through my initial wrist crisis.
Jia: Hope your hair isn’t still so gross?
Me: I think it’s better. Maybe?
Jia: Waiting to hear about updates with that New Friend Dave. All of us are!
She’s evidently been on my socials. I laugh, but confirm this with an emoji and a text.
After we’ve driven for a bit through the bumpy snow, Dave’s hand meanders to the back of my headrest.
“Diana? I didn’t know how to respond before because I thought you knew. You’re my real home. Not that house on its own. I thought that was obvious.”
Oh.
“Well, it’s a beautiful place,” I offer sort of dumbly. Shyly.
He laughs. “It is. But how about we make it our home?”
“I’d like that. Very much.” I lean back into the comfort of the plush car seat and pull his hand down from the leather headrest and set his touch against my shoulder. “This sounds so simple, but I’m just so relieved to be happy for a heartbeat. To be out of pain and grief for any time at all.”
His hand inches up into my hair. “How about we shoot for endless heartbeats?” While he’s only touching me gently—casually really—the sexual tension starts to creep in.
Like how even his slightest touch ignites me and also calms me.
Dave makes me feel comforted and protected.
Concepts I totally get, but ones that I don’t have much experience with.
I’m feeling a mix of wanting to pounce on this boy and drain us both sexually, reenacting our vacation selves, also wanting to innocently fall asleep against him.
Fatigue overtakes me. “You’re taking us home?”
“Yes.”
The car rumbles over the snow, and I turn to my left to watch him drive. To watch him in general. “Maybe I can figure out how to make you happy for more than a heartbeat.”
He moves his hand down to mine and gives me a squeeze. “I’m plenty heartbeats happy.”
That may be sort of true, but he’s also clearly got some stuff that’s way off rhythm. Some very broken heartbeats. Now that I’ve learned to understand hurt so deeply, I can see it in him. Feel it.
It’s not a fun club I’m in, but I know he’s a part of it. He and a million other people. The Fucking Trauma Club.
Dave just hasn’t accepted his membership. And it’s one he’s unwittingly joined.
There are a thousand divisions, and all of them suck.
It’s just not clear yet which awful one he belongs to.