Chapter 8 #2
Shining truths are hard to believe. Blanket statements that contradict current belief systems are harder to adopt.
So I say, “Everyone’s stupid at some things, but no one’s stupid with everything.
It’s important that your environment allows you to participate in the things you’re smart at while nurturing any interest and intellectual growth in the stuff you’re not so great at. ”
“That…makes a lot of sense.”
I take a turn toward Sunny Pages and know better than to vilify her parents while she’s still holding grace for them.
Never mind that I want to stab her entire immediate family repeatedly with a dull butter knife.
Providing that information would only make her wary of me, not them.
Love does that to people. The excuses you can make for the ones you love are endless.
So I proceed with caution. “Life shouldn’t be constantly confusing or make you feel like you’re constantly tiptoeing, cutie pie.
Sometimes people can mean well and be wonderful human beings—” Or trash slugs.
“—but they still might not be what you need. To use the growth analogy, some plants die in desert conditions, others were built to thrive there. Some people are sand when you need lush rainforest earth.” Parking right in front of the rustic bookstore overgrown with ivy and adorned with hanging plants, I take in the cheery window display of lavish page art around latest releases, including one of Viktor’s novels.
Clara hasn’t looked up most of the drive, but now her attention slowly elevates. Her fingers tangle. She chews her cheek.
“What are you feeling?” I murmur.
“I’m uncomfortable with the idea of going in there and asking for things—even though I know it fulfills something for you.”
“You understand that your apprehension makes it mean so much more to me that you’re willing to, for my sake?”
She nods.
“You also understand that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I need you to want to. That’s what makes it matter to me.”
She pulls her lip into her mouth. “I…do want to. I want books. It just feels weird. Wanting is selfish, but because of how you are, not wanting is also selfish.” A labored breath enters her. “It’s confusing to figure out what’s right.”
“There’s no wrong answer here, E-clair-a.
Whatever you want is right.” But, since we’re speaking on selfishness, I’m the one who doesn’t need to bask in her struggle.
She wants books; she’ll get books. There’s no reason for me to hover over her, hoping she’ll beg me for them, while she does.
“If you’d like—” I get out my wallet, open it, and offer her my platinum AMEX.
“—I can give you my card, and you can get whatever you want without feeling like I’m pressuring you or expecting something. ”
Her hands clench, and she turns her attention to me, staring at the plastic in my hands.
Broken and soft, she says, “Why are you so kind to me? Why, even when you don’t get anything out of it, are you still so kind to me?
Am I missing something? Am I being stupid?
Is it really obvious? You’re grooming me, aren’t you?
” Her face blisters, and she squeezes her eyes shut.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. That was so rude. ”
It’s not rude, but it does sting, especially since I’m not sure myself whether what I’m doing is remotely okay.
I do crave complete dependency, and I have isolated her from her past, but I hope I haven’t been doing anything that leads her to doubt herself more than she already does.
If anything, her parents seem to have groomed her into a husk of a servant girl.
I’m trying to undo the damage. “Speaking your mind is a rule, cupcake.”
Soft as can be, she says, “Falling madly in love with you is also a rule.”
Yes, well. “Learning to say no is one, too.”
“Am I supposed to say no to one of the other rules? What if I say no to the rule about saying no?”
“Then I think you’ll have created a paradox, and we’re all doomed to fall into a death vortex.” I pop my card back in my wallet then rest the dark leather in my lap.
Her tiny frown fixes on me, and I’m a big fan of what that expression and this conversation means. She’s growing. Feeling safer. Bringing up topics that could end in disaster. She’s taking chances, challenging her environment, noticing the differences between the sand and the earth.
“I’m sorry,” she says, finally, relapsing into old habits of submission.
I shake my head. “It’s a valid question.
There’s nothing to apologize for. If I’m making you uncomfortable, tell me how, and then hold tight to the feeling.
If I don’t change my behavior for you and accommodate your comfort, if I continue to cross boundaries when you’ve communicated them clearly, cut me off. ”
“What if I’m wrong?”
“Does it matter?”
Her brows knit. “Of course it matters. What if I make you into something you aren’t because of my confused feelings? Feelings aren’t even real.”
“Feelings are very real, Clara. And if I am making you feel uncomfortable, that means my actions prompted that feeling. You are smart enough and intuitive enough to recognize when something is wrong. You don’t have to vilify someone to understand that they’re not good for you.
You deserve to feel safe. And if I’m not willing to accommodate you in that venture, you must tell me, so I can make efforts to fix it.
Because, you, Clara? You are worthy of that effort.
And I am willing to fix whatever I need to for you. ”
“But what if I’m the problem?” she whispers. “What if I’m the one who needs to be cut off? What if I’m the one crossing boundaries?”
“Then, sweetness, isn’t it my job to tell you and make those decisions for myself?
You handle what you can control; I’ll handle what I can.
” I reach for her face, cup her cheek in my palm, electrify as she shivers and the fine hairs on her arms rise.
“Now…am I making you uncomfortable? Has anything I’ve done made you uncomfortable?
I am happy to curb my actions so you feel safe.
I know I’m royally—” I swear. “—up. So it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that I’m unintentionally hurting you.
But, listen: I do not want to hurt you. And I will gladly put effort into making sure I’m not. ”
Her lips tremble as her eyes fill with glassy tears. Lifting her fingers to my wrist, she holds my touch to her skin as droplets fall along my thumb. “I…didn’t like when you looked in my recipe book without permission. And I know it was wide open on my bed, but…it was private.”
A twinge in my chest pinches; I ignore it, for her sake. “I’m so sorry. I will ask next time to make sure it’s okay.”
Sniffling, she shakes her head. “It doesn’t even matter anymore. I’m being so stupid. You help me in the kitchen a lot. I make the recipes for us now. I color-code the tasks between us.”
That confession does other things to my chest, and these sensations I don’t ignore.
“It’s not stupid,” I whisper, voice rough.
“I’m inclined to overstep. I know that. Your emotions concerning my pitiful inability to recognize someone’s personal space are valid.
It’s something I should work on. What else? ”
“I don’t want to nitpick.”
“Please do.” I swipe away her tears. “Let nothing fester. Show me that you care about our friendship enough to make sure nothing big or small gets in the way of it.”
She turns her face into my hand. “I don’t want to ask you not to be yourself. I already feel like you’re too careful with me.”
I try my very best to be too careful with everyone, because at least then I’m almost half decent.
“I’ll only feel safe being less careful with you if you feel safe telling me when I’ve gone too far.
Does that make sense? The more honest we are with one another, the more free we are to be who we are with one another. ”
“I don’t know…”
I kiss her forehead. “You’re important to me. What do you think will happen if you tell me no?”
“You’ll hate me,” she whispers. “And then you’ll send me back home. And I won’t be able to bake or read or laugh with everyone anymore.”
The very idea that she doesn’t want to go home anymore sparks hope in me. “Does that align with what you know is true about my character? Have I given you reason to believe that I would send you away so easily?”
Her head turns, hitches a moment, then shakes. “No.”
“Do you know that if you wanted to leave, I wouldn’t force you to stay?”
“I don’t want to leave.”
Breath abandons me, and I pull her into my arms, as close as the center console will allow. “I don’t want you to leave, either. There isn’t a single thing you could tell me that would overcome my desire to keep you if you want to stay.”
Her arms circle me, and I lose my ability to think. Her damp cheek presses to my neck. “I think…you’re the first real friend I’ve ever had.”
Death would be less painful than the knowledge she has suffered twenty-two years all alone.
“I don’t want to control you,” she whispers, and the feeling is very much not mutual. I want to own this woman. I want her in my veins. I want her etched into my flesh and bone. “Can we…” She takes a hard breath into her shaking chest. “…try being less careful with each other?”
“Only so long as it doesn’t hurt you. You need to tell me if I hurt you. You need to tell me.”
“I can text better than I can speak sometimes. Is that okay?”
“Absolutely.”
“It won’t frustrate you that I can’t communicate like an adult?”
I squeeze her. “Oh, Clara. You are so completely the opposite of frustrating. How can I explain to you just how deeply I adore you?”
“That is very much not what I have been previously told.”
“Who told you? The sand, or the soil? And which have your roots been more able to thrive in?”
A tiny smile touches her precious, beautiful, lilting voice. “You like that analogy, don’t you?”
“A little bit. I might turn it into a song.”
Her hug weakens, and I mourn the loss as she pulls away to dry her face. “Will you play it for me if you do?”
“Absolutely.”
Timid, she smiles. “I’m sorry for all of this.”
“I’m not. I’m grateful for the opportunity to know you better.” Pulling my keys from the ignition, I ask, “You ready to go in?”
She nods.
“Me and my card, or just my card?”
“You,” she says, and opens her door.