Chapter 20 #4
“So…” My mouth quirks, and I tip my head toward her. “Same rules apply here. We’ll practice until you’re great at this too.”
She shoots me a look that’s equal parts reluctance and curiosity.
“Let’s try it,” I say, leaning back like this is no big deal, even though I’m seriously invested.
“You be you, and I’ll be Lindsey.” There’s a paper towel on the coffee table, left over from a snack I had earlier today.
I snatch it and place it on top of my head.
“Pretend I have long hair, like you said Lindsey has.” Dramatically, I flip imaginary strands over my shoulders.
Helen giggles. Exactly what I was hoping for. I’m addicted to that sound, so light and breathy. She lights up when she laughs, almost like she’s surprised herself.
Fighting the urge to laugh with her, I straighten my mouth and pitch my voice extra high, hopefully woman-like. I wave enthusiastically and squeak, “Hi, Helen! Wanna be my bestie?”
Helen laughs so hard she snorts, and my grin breaks free, stretching my cheeks.
“That was ridiculous,” she wheezes. “Lindsey isn’t going to say that to me.”
Tilting my head, I tell her, “She might not say it outright, but that’s probably what she’s thinking.”
“Doubtful.”
“Fine. Take two.” I clear my throat, drop the act, and say in a more-normal voice, “Helen, so nice to see you.”
Helen stares at me, her lips twitching.
Without moving my lips, I stage whisper, “This is the part where you say something back.”
“Oh!” She startles. “Right. Sorry. I got distracted.”
“By my rock-hard abs? My mesmerizing eyes?” I lean forward and purr, enjoying the way her eyes widen and her breath stills. I’m flirting with her, again. I can’t seem to stop. It doesn’t help that she’s so responsive, so easily flustered with her cheeks staining pink.
Helen blinks once, twice, slowly. Then she gives herself a shake, and that dazed look clears, replaced by a slit-eyed glare. “Distracted by your horrendous impression of a woman.”
“So sorry, m’lady.” I pretend to bow, and the paper towel slips from my head, drifting to the floor. I scoop it back up and slap it on.
I try again. “Hello, Helen. I’m Lindsey. How’s it going?” I wave a hand at her, urging her to continue the conversation.
Helen straightens, her back ramrod straight and stiff. “I’m fine, Lindsey, and how are you today?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not at a job interview.
You’re talking to a potential friend. Relax!
” Without thinking, I lean forward, ignoring how the change in position makes my cast dig into my thigh, and put my hands on her shoulders.
She’s tense, way too tense, so I massage her, kneading her muscles, careful not to press too hard.
With a whoosh of exhaled breath, she relaxes into my touch and her eyes drift closed.
“That feels good, right there,” she mumbles, her head lolling.
That feels good, right there.
Helen from a year ago whispers in my ear. Her eyes had been closed back then, too. When my hand was between her legs. I shake away the memory.
You’re housemates. Friends. Kind of, I remind myself, using my sternest internal voice. My dick doesn’t get the memo. It twitches. She moans again, and I release her, backing off before things get out of hand.
Her eyes blink open. Oblivious to the blood rushing to my dick, she says, “Sorry. Tell me again, what should I do?”
I settle back, pulling a pillow into my lap to hide what’s going on down there, and take her in. Helen’s cheeks are still flushed from laughing, but her expression’s already gone serious again. That’s the thing with her—joy always feels like something she borrows, not something she owns.
“Hellcat, you don’t have to say anything brilliant,” I say gently. “What are you afraid of, exactly? Not knowing what to say?”
She hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I get so in my head that I worry I’ll say the wrong thing and make it worse.”
“So don’t say anything. Just…be there. Listen. Let her talk.” I pause. “That’s all people really want, anyway.”
She fidgets with the hem of her leotard. “I’ve tried to figure this out before, but it never works.”
She’s spiraling, I can see it. I scoot an inch closer and lower my voice. “Maybe this time will be different.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and, for a second, she looks so unsure it almost hurts to see. This is a woman who can rattle off a hundred pages of obscure medical knowledge from memory. But human communication terrifies her.
“You’re brave, Helen,” I say. “Not because you never mess up. Because you keep trying anyway.”
Her mouth opens like she’s about to argue, then she shuts it. Her eyes shimmer a little too brightly, and her lower lip pokes out. “I don’t feel brave. I feel like a mess.”
“Same.” I point to my broken leg. “I’m limping around, losing my job, changing my major. I’m the poster child for feeling like a mess.” I say it casually, but the truth in my words makes my stomach turn over.
Who am I to offer advice when my own life is such a dumpster fire?
She gives me a weak smile and, maybe sensing that I need it, says, “At least you look good doing it.”
“Aw. Was that a compliment?”
She rolls her eyes. Not as sarcastically, softer now. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
A silence stretches between us. Comfortable, but charged. I think we’re both aware of how close we’re sitting. I could reach out and brush her hair from her face, tuck it behind her ear, but I’m not who someone like her wants or needs, so I don’t.
After a beat, I break the silence. “Let’s do it again. Hi! I’m Lindsey.”
She visibly forces herself to relax. “Hi, Lindsey. Nice to see you.”
“Good.” I grin, pride swelling in my chest. “Now ask me a question about myself.”
She thinks, scrunching her nose, then brightens and says, “Okay! How’d you get into dance?”
I make something up. “I saw a ballet on TV and begged for lessons. How about you?”
This time her response is quick and smooth. “My mom was a professional dancer before she had me. She started me in lessons when I was three. I don’t remember ever not doing it. Dancing was something we shared. She’d even substitute teach at the dance studio when a teacher called in sick.”
Curiosity makes me forget I’m supposed to be Lindsey. “What made you stop?” I ask, honestly wanting to know.
A shrug. “I was dancing for hours and hours every day by the time I was a teenager. My grades started to slip. I always wanted to be a doctor, like my dad. Eventually I had to choose between dance or academics. I couldn’t succeed at the level I wanted while doing both.”
She lets out a sigh, her eyes downcast. “It was a hard decision, almost felt like I was choosing between my parents. Mom or Dad. I picked medicine, which I don’t regret, but after that, I don’t know, it was one less thing I could talk to my mom about. One less thing we had in common.”
Silence again, sorrowful this time.
I rush to fill it. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have anything in common with any of my family.”
Her eyes widen. “Nothing?”
“Nope. Gwen and my dad were the scientists. Brandon and my mom are both crazy competitive, always needing to win in sports, board games. And me? I’m just...mellow. It used to make me feel like something was wrong with me, that I didn’t care enough.”
I never told that to anyone.
Not even Jamie.
Helen doesn’t say anything right away. She’s watching me, her head tilted slightly, brows drawn, like she’s studying a problem she doesn’t know how to solve. Not yet, anyway.
“You ever wish you were more like them?” she asks softly. “Your family.”
I let out a low breath. “Sometimes. It’d be easier if I wanted the things they want. If I cared about being the best. But I don’t know what I want. Not really.” Uncomfortable with how intimate this conversation has gotten, I pivot. “Sorry, I’m supposed to be Lindsey.”
Helen frowns, noting my change in subject, but she doesn’t press me and I’m grateful for that.
“I just told you about how I, Lindsey, got into dancing,” I remind her. “Now ask me something else.”
She taps a finger against her lips, musing. “I don’t want to talk about the hospital, because I don’t want to bring up why I’m not there…” She trails off, at a loss.
“That’s fine. Pick something else,” I encourage.
“I don’t have much else. Dance and medicine. That pretty much sums me up.” The corners of Helen’s mouth turn down.
Even I don’t know where to go from there. I lean back and stretch while I think, which pulls the robe open at my chest. Helen glances at my nipple ring and reddens. Oops. I pull the robe closed, weirdly self-conscious. “Is there something you want to do? A new hobby or something?”
Her gaze drifts to the glass door that leads to the patio and the ocean beyond. “I’ve always been so busy with work I never thought much about adding something else into my schedule, but there is this one thing…”
I perk up at that. “What?”
I realize she’s not looking at the ocean—she’s staring at my surfboard, propped up on the wall next to her potted plants, right where Anthony left it.
“Surfing?” I exclaim, more excited than I’ve been since I broke my leg.
The darkness that I’ve kept hidden retreats.
I haven’t touched the ocean since the accident, and just thinking about it makes something loosen in my chest. The idea of sharing that with Helen?
It hits me low and hard, sparking a happy, fizzy anticipation I didn’t expect.
She pulls her eyes away from the board and looks at me, uncertainty shimmering there. “It’s a stupid idea—”
“No! No, it’s not,” I say, practically bouncing, at least as much as I can with my cast. “I can help you. I can teach you.”