19 #3
“Aunt Bethany is a voracious reader, and we used to do this thing where she’d explain to me the setting of some fantasy book she was reading, or gush about her favorite character, and then she’d ask me to try and create it for her. So, that’s where the book illustrations came in.”
When I’m silent, Anders adds, “I told you it was embarrassing.”
“No, no, not at all.” The words come rapidly. “I just got so incredibly sad that I had to think of really angry things to keep from crying.”
He offers me a warm laugh. “Lucinda, no, I’m fine.”
“I know,” I say, then add, “But are you? Do you ever still wish for your mom to knock on your door? I do . . .” I hold out a hand he can barely see, probably. “I know our situations are entirely different, though.”
“At this point in my life, I’m pretty content with the understanding that Aunt Bethany is the closest thing I have to a mom.”
“You never refer to her as your mom,” I point out. “But you’ve only known Bethany. Is that something you’ve ever considered?”
“I-I,” he stutters, then says, “I wouldn’t want to burden her with that, especially now when she has an actual child.”
It would absolutely break Bethany’s heart to hear that. To know that her worries and heartaches, stemming from watching Anders continually make himself as small as possible because he views himself as a burden, still have a hold on Anders even now.
And it’s currently breaking mine, to see that someone so kind, and so lovely, and so generous, views himself in this way, and it makes me realize why Anders was offended with how I speak about myself.
“I know that I’m overstepping by saying this, but you’re the only one who thinks you’re a burden. Nobody else sees you that way,” I say. “And if I can’t speak badly about myself, then neither can you.” I lie on my back, letting my hands lie on my side.
Anders doesn’t respond right away. I hear him shift and then feel his fingers linking through mine.
After more silence, he says, “Thank you for showing me Sora.”
I laugh. “Thanks for showing you a dog?”
“Yes,” he says. “It makes me feel closer to you. When you share things you’re passionate about, you light up. You get this look like the whole world makes sense for a second. You care so much,” he says. “About dogs and people and everything. It’s nice to see someone care that deeply.”
For a second, I can’t say anything. Maybe because the compliment isn’t about how I look or how I sound or how I make someone else feel. It’s about what I care about, and that feels more meaningful.
I let out a slow breath. “That’s nice of you to say.”
He stays quiet, giving me space I’m not sure I want. This urge to let out some of my worries within me climbs to the surface in this quiet, comfortable moment we lie in.
“Honestly,” I say, my voice suddenly softer, “I’m scared about my life, about the future. I’ve been working toward this idea for so long. But what if I fail? What if I pour everything into it and it just doesn’t work out? What happens then?”
I clear my throat and go on. “This dream is the last one I’ve got left. If I lose this, I don’t know what’s left for me to want.”
He’s quiet for so long, embarrassment spreads through my bloodstream. I force a laugh. “That sounds pathetic, doesn’t it?”
He shifts closer, enough that I can feel the warmth of him beside me even if I can’t see his face clearly.
“It’s not pathetic,” he says.
My chest stings. He sounds so sure. “I’ve already lost so much.
My parents. My marriages. Years of my life to things that weren’t for me.
And I know people say it’s never too late to start again, but I feel like I’m always starting over.
What if, after this, there are no more beginnings? No new place to start from?”
It’s too much, probably. So I try to wave it away with a weak smile he can’t see. “Sorry, again, pathetic. You can cut some of my pay for emotional labor.”
Anders squeezes my hand again, more firmly this time.
“You’re allowed to be scared. But Lucinda, you’re going to be okay.
You haven’t lost everything, you’ve survived everything.
That’s different. And the fact that you still care enough to want something good, after all that?
That’s not pathetic. That’s a strength I’ve never seen anyone else ever wear. ”
My heart skips and speeds. I press the back of my hand against my mouth, trying not to let anything spill out that I can’t take back.
He adds, softer now, “I believe in you. I believe in this dream you’re chasing. But even if the impossible happens, and you don’t get what you want—”
I cut in, voice tight, “Then what?”
“Then you’ll still be okay. You’ll still find yourself, and you’ll find new dreams. Dreams that fit the person you’ve become along the way.”
His words don’t erase the fear, but they don’t let it swallow me whole either. And I feel every fragile wall I’ve tried to build between us start to crumble.
Not because of some grand gesture—but because he notices. The small things, the big things, most things. Because he pays attention—not out of obligation, but because he wants to. Because his care is quiet and genuine, like everything else about him.
And I’m not entirely sure what to do with all this affection blooming in my chest.