24 #4
I shake my head. “And what about when it’s been long enough that your family starts to notice I don’t actually have the job you told them I did?”
“By then,” he says, “you’ll be working at the shelter. We can tell them the truth about that.”
“We live in different states,” I remind him.
“I like to travel.”
“Anders,” I say.
“Lucinda,” he says.
“I’m being serious here.”
“As am I.” He pulls me closer to him. “Tell me you don’t want to explore whatever this connection between us is, and I won’t pursue you. I’ll be polite, help you when you need it, and we won’t speak at all outside of work, I promise. Tell me now, and I’ll do it.”
I stare at him. “You told me you thought love was fleeting. That people don’t know how to stay in it.”
“I did.” Anders nods.
“So why are you saying all this now?”
“Because I’ve never felt this before. I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you. Your company. Your laugh. Your body. Even when we’re silent or awkward, I crave it. I crave you,” he says firmly. “And I know I won’t stop.”
“I have nothing to offer you,” I say, the words scraping out like a confession. “I can’t take care of you. I’m a mess. You’re so put together. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“You do take care of me,” he says softly. “God, Lucinda . . . you make me feel. Everything with you feels better—warmer, softer, brighter. You’re not a mess. And if you get into one, let me be the one to take care of you.”
When I start to shake my head, Anders adds, “Why won’t you accept that people care about you too? If you think it’s so important, then let me take care of you. Let me be with you.”
His words steal my automatic denial.
A small, hopeful voice in my head wonders if it wouldn’t be so bad to be cared for. To be held together by someone who doesn’t expect me to earn it first.
And maybe I’m not so broken that I have to keep proving I’m worth something. Maybe I already am, just by being a person. Haven’t I done enough good in my life that it would be okay?
And yet, the hope fights with fear. “You’re not seeing the bigger picture here,” I say, trying to find a straw to grasp, wondering why I can’t just tell him no, he shouldn’t pursue me. All the reasons I had seem to go hazy when he brings me closer to his chest.
“Give me this month to be with you,” he says. “Let me take you on real dates, treat this like a real relationship. Give me a real chance, and we’ll see if it’s worth continuing. That’s reasonable, right?”
“No,” I say, finding another straw. “Anders, we live entirely different lives. You’re established, well off, so incredibly put together, and I’m basically a homeless, broke mess of a woman. Why in the world would you want to date me?”
“I can think of several reasons.”
When I roll my eyes, he grips my chin to face him.
“You make me laugh in a single conversation more than I’ve laughed in months.
And when you make someone else laugh, you smile like hearing them feel joy is a reward.
” My heart pounds. “Every time you see something you think your sister will like or find amusing, you take a photo and send it to her. Because you like making people feel like they matter in your world, even when you’re apart.
” My palms grow hot and sweaty. “And maybe I haven’t seen all of it, but I know enough to see how you’ve built the beginning of your life around helping your sister.
And you don’t complain, because the love in your heart is this endless gift that can move past any unfairness that it comes across.
” My breathing comes rapidly. “You don’t have enough money to pay for a round of shots, but you went out of your way to get me a gift just because you thought it’d make me laugh for a brief moment, because tiny instants like that feel like big ones to you.
And you appreciate even the smallest of things, and make them feel big.
You’re always looking to help, but there’s more to you than that.
I think it’s just where you’ve learned to put all your love, so you don’t have to risk handing any of it to someone who might not hold it carefully. ”
“Anders,” I whisper, my heart stuttering, butterflies fluttering in the pit of my stomach.
“Say yes,” Anders pleads with me, “and I’ll keep giving you reasons to believe me. Let me hold some of your love. We can figure out the rest as it comes. I’ll figure it out for you. Just say yes.”
Never in my life have I ever had a man confess to me this way. His words feel like they’re bandaging tiny paper cuts in my heart, small wounds I thought healed long ago. And not a single thing he said had to do with how I look, yet I’ve never felt so seen in my life.
Anders is a genuinely good man, and for some reason is interested in me.
Every part of me wants to say yes. How could I not? He isn’t wrong; we could try—we could see if whatever’s between us can be great. Cross the messy bridge when we get to it. When will I ever meet a man like Anders?
Never, because there is no other man like Anders.
I suck in a breath and give him my answer.