Chapter Eleven #4
Then he clapped his hands together. “Okay, let me balance the register and close everything down, then we can leave.”
“Okay.”
I stood there, not even aware I was gently rubbing the baby carrier. Best cat dad ever . . .
That made me happy.
He made me happy.
“So,” Winter said, snapping me back to here and now. He was at the register. “You said you had questions for me?”
Oh.
Right. My questions.
“Uh, yes,” I said, frowning, giving myself a second to get the words straight in my head. “Your dinner, at the pizzeria, with your friends. How was that?”
“Oh, it was nice,” he said. “Such a great bunch of guys. I met Braithe. He’s the kindergarten teacher at the school. He got here a couple of years ago, so he was giving me all the hints and tips about being a new local. Hamish was there, and Gunter of course. And his partner, Clay Henderson.”
“From Henderson Sawmills,” I said. “His family has been here for a few generations, I believe.”
“Oh, he’s so nice. And big. The man is huge.” He smiled at me. “He and Gunter are so cute together. And Hamish is a talker. And very funny.”
“Hamish is a client. He has a dog called Chutney.”
Winter laughed. “He told me. He said Chutney loves you.”
That was nice. But . . . “You were talking about me?”
“Oh, well,” he said, his cheeks going pink. “Gunter, from the youth center, he, uh . . . How do I say this?” He made a face. “He’s very invested in us.”
“Us?”
“Yeah. You and me and what we have going on.”
What we have going on . . .
“He’s a total romantic,” he added. “And he’s the one who invited us both. I told him you couldn’t make it. He said it was fine. Maybe next time.”
I stared at him, unsure, and confused.
Winter saw this and was quick to clarify.
“He saw us talking outside, remember? He was asking if we were dating. If there was romance in the air because he has this crazy notion that there’s some Christmas Cupid thing in Hartbridge.
Every year before Christmas, someone moves to town, meets a local, and—” He pulled back an imaginary bow and shot the imaginary arrow.
“—bam, Cupid strikes again. Apparently it’s happened a few Christmases in a row.
Hamish, Jayden, Gunter, Braithe, Doctor Rob.
” He shrugged. “They’re convinced we’re next. ”
That was a lot of information and I wasn’t sure what to make of any of it; if he was joking or serious. Rational minds would dismiss it as nonsense, and I considered saying as much, but I was stuck on one thing . . .
He asked if we were dating? I’d wanted to ask the same thing, but he’d brought it up first, so despite how nervous it made me to ask, now was the perfect opportunity. “What did you tell him?”
“Well, I told him I didn’t think there was any such thing as a Christmas Cupid. I love a good fiction story more than most, but I still have a solid grasp on reality, so . . .”
I chuckled, because phew . . . “No, I meant about us dating,” I said. It was so easy to say it like that, almost too easy, and while I had wanted to ask that, the way his gaze shot to mine made me wish I hadn’t asked at all. I tried to get a hold of the panic that bubbled in my tummy. “Oh. I just—”
“I told him we maybe were,” he said, making a face, his cheeks going red.
“I said we hadn’t broached the subject and labels weren’t something I knew you were comfortable with so I couldn’t confirm, but we’d had a few instances of agreeing to meet and there had been lunch or dinner included, and by definition that probably constituted as dating but .
. .” He winced. “I dunno, Deacon. What do you think? Are we . . . ? Is this . . . ?”
I blinked and swallowed, my mouth dry. But his nervousness somehow made me feel better. “Yes, I think. We have had a lunch and dinner date, and by definition, I think you’re correct. I’d like it to be correct.” I shrugged. “If you’d like it to be.”
He grinned. “I would, yes.” He let out a big sigh. “So next time someone asks if we’re dating, I will say yes.”
I laughed because . . . because I was happy, and laughing let out some of the energy I was buzzing with. “I will say yes, too. Actually, my dad said the word dating and then it was all I could think about, wondering if we were or not.”
His eyes locked with mine and I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to. “I’m glad we talked about it,” he whispered.
“Me too.” I swallowed hard, and reminding myself that I had to talk to him about these things, I decided now was the right time.
“I was very confused,” I began, “on Wednesday night when I knew you were having dinner with your friends. I wanted to be there. I wanted to be with you. Yet I still couldn’t bring myself to go or even to ask.
I want to do those things with you, but even thinking about actually going makes me feel all nervous, and I don’t know which is worse.
My mom said I needed to trust myself more, because I can handle more than I give myself credit for and that thinking about things is worse than actually doing the thing. I get myself worked up, and—”
He came over to me and did that thing where he lifts his hand as though he wants to touch me, but he stopped himself.
“Like that,” I said, gesturing to his hand. “It’s natural for you to touch people. Well, that sounds weird. I mean, touch their arm when you’re talking to them.”
He chuckled.
“It’s a gesture of reassurance, I know that. And I want to get used to it. You touched my arm the other night at my front door, and I could feel it long after you’d left.”
“Oh, Deacon,” he whispered.
“It wasn’t awful.”
He burst out laughing. “I’m glad. It wasn’t awful for me either.”
“Normally when people touch me, it feels wrong. On my skin. It feels all wrong, and my skin doesn’t like it.
But not with you.” I grimaced because this was probably coming out all wrong.
“You haven’t touched my skin. Just my arm through my sleeve.
And I know, coming from you, it will be okay. You’ll be gentle and won’t grab me.”
“I would never.” Then he made a face. “Unless it was to pull you out of the way from a runaway vehicle or something.”
“Why would I be in the path of a vehicle?”
He grinned. “Let’s hope we never find out.”
Okay.
Conversations with Winter never went the way I’d thought they would . . .
“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I want to go with you,” I said, licking my lips.
My mouth was dry and not overly pleasant.
“If you invite me again to meet your friends. I should go. I want to. Even if for just a short while. I want to try. A leap of faith, Mom called it. But not in a religious way.”
He chuckled. “I get it.”
“And even if it doesn’t go well, at least I tried.”
“Of course. We can totally do micro-dates until you get used to it.”
“Micro-dates?”
“Yes. I made that up.” He shrugged. “But it’s funny you mentioned wanting to go next time I was invited somewhere, because we were invited to another dinner.”
Oh.
“Oh.” I blinked. “That was very fast. I wasn’t expecting that so . . . soon . . .”
He grinned at me. “It’s a Christmas dinner at Hamish and Ren’s place. Apparently they do it every year. It’s very low-key, casual. Just a meal and a few drinks. Well, they can drink. I don’t usually drink alcohol.”
“Me either.”
“So if you want to come with me, we don’t have to stay long. Just for as long as you’re comfortable.”
Maybe I’d volunteered my attempting to join him too soon . . .
“When is this dinner?”
“This weekend. Sunday evening. They like to meet before Christmas before everyone has other commitments.”
I grimaced. “I think I’m regretting saying I’d go next time.”
Winter laughed. “You’ll be fine. Small steps, Deacon.”
Small steps . . .
“Mom said that too. Actually, she quoted Lao Tzu.”
“Ah, so awesome quotes run in the family, huh?”
I smiled and gave him a nod. “I do feel better after talking to you.”
“I’m glad. Me too. Sometimes we make mountains out of molehills in our heads when talking things out is so much better.”
I nodded again.
“Was there anything else you wanted to ask me?”
Well, there was . . .
“Come on, out with it,” he said. “We are on a roll tonight.”
I let out a rush of breath, quelling the sudden nerves. I had to get the words right in my head first . . . It took a moment, and Winter never rushed me.
“About touching my arm,” I began. “I want to get used to it. I don’t want you to have to censor yourself around me. You should be yourself, and I need to push my boundaries if I want to get used to it. I need to trust myself, and you.”
“Okay,” he said, looking into my eyes. I could read the confusion in his eyes, but still, he never pushed for more. He let me get it out on my own time.
I held up my hand, palm upward. “I want to hold your hand,” I whispered, feeling a rush of nerves and elation, and possibly nausea. “I want to know what that feels like.”
He had to duck down a bit so he could look up at my face, into my eyes.
He was smiling. “I want to know what holding your hand feels like too.” He raised his hand to mine but stopped before contact, then held his hand, palm up, next to mine.
“What about if you touch my hand first? That way you control it.”
I met his gaze then. He really did understand. He didn’t mock me or tell me I was being stupid. He gave me the power, the control, as he put it.
So with my index finger, I gently touched his palm. It was soft and warm, and my breath caught, my tummy did that swooping thing. I traced my finger up his index finger, skin on skin.
It was . . . exhilarating.
When I got to the tip of his finger, I pulled my hand back and met his gaze. His eyes were on me, his cheeks the pinkest I’d ever seen.
“How was that?” he asked.
“Uh . . .” I had to think . . .
“Not awful?”
“Not awful,” I agreed. “I liked it.”
He kept his hand up. “Try it again.”
I touched his palm again, this time with my index and middle fingers. Skimming his palm and along his fingers, still the barest of touches. I pulled my hand back with a puff of breath.
“Would you like me to try your hand?” he asked.
Did I want that?
Well, I did, yes. But could I?
I turned my hand over, showing my palm. My nerves made my skin feel all weird so it probably wasn’t a good idea, but I wanted to try.
Then, like I’d done to him, he gently touched his finger to my palm and slowly up my index finger. But he didn’t watch our hands. He watched my face. “How’s that?”
I pulled my hand back and needed to wipe my palm on my jeans. “Tickles.”
Winter laughed. “It does! But it felt nice.”
I blinked, trying to regulate my breathing, my heart rate, and the jitters in my tummy. “It did.”
“Small steps,” Winter said with a grin. “You did great.”
I nodded, feeling braver now. And happy.
I’d taken a chance. I’d stepped out of my comfort zone and it had gone well. Better than well, even. “Thank you, for letting me try, and for not making me feel foolish.”
His eyes softened. “You’re welcome. But can I let you in on a little secret?”
I nodded.
“The other night, you held my sleeve,” he said. “And that was the cutest, most romantic thing ever. I mean, holding hands would be awesome, I’m sure. But anytime you want to hold my sleeve, you absolutely can.”
I huffed out a laugh, embarrassed. “I, uh, I used to do that to my parents. When I was little.”
“Ahhh.” He lifted both shoulders, wiggled, and sighed. “It’s the cutest thing ever. I love it. So romantic.”
Romantic?
I shook my head, possibly rolled my eyes. “I don’t know about that.”
“I do.” He beamed at me. “You send me lines of poetry and hold my sleeve. Deacon, you’re the most romantic person I’ve ever met.”
My face felt like it was on fire, and I wasn’t sure where to look. “I need to go home now.”
He was quiet, and when I risked a glance at him, he was smiling at me. “Same.”
We packed up the kittens, locked up the store, and got them bundled into his car. I opened his driver side door for him, trying to muster some of that courage I’d felt earlier.
“Thank you,” he murmured, one foot inside the car. Then he stopped to face me. His breath was puffs of steam, his beanie pulled low, his nose and cheeks pink from the cold. “I’m so glad I got to see you tonight. Thank you for your help, and thank you for telling me how you feel.”
“How I feel?”
“About wanting to go on a dinner date with me. About how you want to try. About all that stuff. It’s not easy to talk about, but we did great. And we’re dating now.” He grinned. “I’m especially glad we discussed that.”
“Me too.” Then, before I lost my nerve, before my overthinking could get the better of me, I said, “And yes. I’d like to go. To the Christmas dinner. If that offer still stands.”
He grinned at me. “Yes, of course it still stands. I’ll tell Hamish to expect us both. And you still have to come to dinner at my place sometime. Another dinner date. Or a movie date. Or to my work for a lunch date.”
“Do you like saying the word date?”
“Yes.” He laughed, but then one of the kittens meowed. “Okay, okay,” he said to them. “I’m getting in. We’ll be home soon.” Then he looked at me. “Goodnight, Deacon. I’m so happy. And I’m already looking forward to your poem in the morning.”
That made me laugh. “I have a list.”
He sighed. “I love lists.”
Both kittens meowed at him this time. “I have to go,” he said, looking at me as if he didn’t want to leave just yet. But then he got in his car and I closed the door.
With a wave, he drove off and I walked to my car. The air was bitterly cold, the night dark, but I was warmed through, happy. Happier than I’d ever been. My heart felt full to almost bursting, but in a good way. I had no tummy aches, no anxiety, no confusion about anything.
No overthinking.
Main Street was lit up, the streetlights and Christmas lights were a soft glow in the cold air, the snow on the ground made it all look so peaceful.
I took a moment to enjoy it, not something I could ever recall doing, got in the truck, and drove home.
Mom and Dad were both still up, waiting to see how my night had gone. I didn’t even have to say anything, but they seemed to know just by looking at me. I felt like I was walking on air.
I felt . . . I wasn’t sure I could put in words.
It was a strange feeling, but in a good way. There was no chaos in my head, no tangle of thoughts. As if finally talking to Winter and admitting my fears to him, admitting that I wanted to try pushing myself, and admitting we were now dating, it seemed to calm the noise in my head.
For the first time in my life, my heart was doing the talking.
When I finally climbed into bed, I grabbed my phone and typed out a quick internet search.
What does love feel like?