10. Olly
TEN
OLLY
Satisfied with a book about dragon shifters, I lay there and half listened while I kept my hands occupied.
It was a way I coped with anxiety, and even though these methods were sometimes destructive, like pulling out small pieces of my hair, they helped ease the tension roiling in me.
I was dissecting the evening, as I clutched at the blanket and pulled little fuzzies off it now and then.
I felt a bit unsettled about what had happened.
My anxiety was jacked up to eleven, but it was relieved by the freedom and relief I found in opening up to Clark.
I knew that he was hungry to hear more by the look in those perfectly emerald eyes, and I thought I really had found the right person to let in to this bizarre inner world of mine.
I felt like creatures in the deep were moving, not sleeping, and sharing in my confusion, but vibrating in approval over Clark himself.
When I let myself think of Clark, a wide smile came over my face, and I wanted to let out a little squee noise. He was patient, kind, and loyal. He wouldn’t pull back and laugh in my face or start rumors at work that I was insane.
As I tossed and turned, I decided to braid and unbraid my hair.
It loved to curl on its own, so I never understood why I had the urge to make it curlier, but I just did.
After that, it was picking on the pilled spots on this atrocious blanket that felt almost plastic, and was probably pure polyester from the ’70s.
It was lime green and hideous, so I felt fine about slowly tearing it up if I had a night like this.
I’d actually had more than one night like this since Clark Evans showed up in my life.
I would wonder about his trustworthiness, if I could actually go the distance and open up to someone—actually utter the word “psychic”—and if he would be the right person to do that with.
Everything I picked up from him screamed at me to just go for it, tell him everything, but there was a lot to consider, and I had been essentially trained from an early age that oversharing could get you in a world of pain.
I’d rolled out of bed early, feeling the effects of my sleepless night but determined to hold the course and meet Clark this morning.
It was a near thing. My heart raced from about 5 a.m. onward, my stomach twisting, and I had a slight tremor in my hands that was being stubborn.
I had sat on the fence of texting him that we should go another time, but realized that if I had decided to trust Clark, I had to actually trust him.
I had just finished slipping into my purple Skechers when I heard my doorbell ring.
Perfect timing, as expected. It was so strange, I thought, as I extended a hand towards the doorknob.
After a night of wrestling with my thoughts and feelings, I decided I was ready to tell someone about this burden I carried.
But there was still a part of me flashing signs in my mind that said: Red alert!
Shields up. All crew to battle stations.
I shook my head to extinguish such ridiculous thoughts and opened the door, being met with Clark who was a bit quieter than usual.
He wordlessly held out a thermos of something to me, and when I raised an eyebrow, he said simply, “Pumpkin spice, decaf, made with oat milk.” “Please let her like it,” I heard.
He flashed a quick grin, just long enough for his dimples to emerge and then retreat while I tasted the hot drink.
“This is great. I love it,” I replied honestly, and wondered why the special coffee today of all days.
Then I got it. He was thinking of Jeff and that phone call last night.
About what it would mean for our futures, considering we both had jobs we loved and were good at.
We’d know tomorrow what awaited us, and not a tick before, so I resolved to just enjoy the weekend and this time we had together.
I grabbed my cross-body bag and, after ensuring I had unpacked my little pill container with benzodiazepines in case I got stuck somewhere and became overwhelmed by anxiety, or by voices, and forgot that I couldn’t take them with the pregnancy.
All set, I tossed the bag on over my burgundy felt jacket, and we were off.
I refused to cry, but I did slap on a smile and extend my hand, which he took.
And so, it was holding hands that we walked through our building, which was sort of our workplace, as though daring fate to pounce on us.
Such thoughts were probably on Clark’s mind, too, because his palm was a bit sweaty, and his eyes darted around nervously when we got to the parking garage, as though he were expecting Jeff to pop out from behind some random car, see our linked hands, and fire us both on the spot.
It was cold and rainy, so we decided to take Clark’s car instead of hoofing it.
It was so strange that I’d had a letter slipped under my door a few weeks back giving me one of the parking spots right by the elevator, and his spot was still in Siberia, past the garbage room, which probably had rats.
We didn’t talk much on the drive there. There was an interstellar amount of space between us that I hated, to the point where now it just made me feel sick to my stomach.
Of course, that could have just been due to the pregnancy and my nerves.
After seeing that my “greasy spoon” had been upgraded to a bougie diner, I was annoyed, but we decided to stay, as the booths and tables were fairly far apart, and with the pandemic plexiglass screens still up, we could eat and talk in relative privacy.
We were shown to a booth by a server named Hilda, who looked like she had been doing this job for fifty years and took shit from no one.
She deposited a menu on the table in front of each of us, and made way to another of her tables.
“So last night was kind of trippy,” Clark said while he perused the menu, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
I knew then that he was eager for answers and for there to be nothing but honesty between us.
I had meant it when I said last night that he sometimes let his thoughts just pour out of him like a running tap, and I normally just did my best to block him out.
However, like with everything, one must read the fine print.
It was far harder to maintain that mental distance when I was upset or feeling vulnerable.
This morning, I made damn sure my shields were firmly in place, protecting my mind as much as his privacy.
“Are you talking about my brother?” I asked, knowing that would be the hardest bit and the most taxing for me to explain.
“No, I wouldn’t bring up something so...
complicated and potentially hurtful for you, while we’re in public.
I meant the...” He glanced around us and lowered his voice.
“Indoor snowstorm, actually,” he said, and I knew he was trying to be blasé.
Clark had zero game when it came to hiding what he was really thinking or feeling, when the stakes were high.
I really ought to teach him how to shield, but that would delve into parts of my mind I didn’t know if I actually was ready to share.
I’d known this man for just over five weeks.
Five weeks, I kept reminding myself. Ugh, I kept going from feeling I could totally trust him, to trusting him somewhat, to getting cold feet and not wanting to trust anyone, not even Hilda with my breakfast order.
And then, I felt silly for going to such extremes with my fears, which put me right back at the beginning with the feeling that I could trust him completely.
I mean, if I couldn’t, surely something would have come up during that first handshake, when he was totally exposed, and his heart was bared open to mine.
I had relived that moment over and again, remembering his fundamental goodness, his nervousness at meeting me, and the fact he found me so very beautiful.
“Well,” I replied, my heart continuing to race, and a bit of sweat breaking out on my face while giving the menu a go-over of my own, “that’s the Maritimes for you.
We say, if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes, and it’ll change.
” Hilda popped by to grab our orders and drop off some water, so I further postponed the conversation by drinking my glassful in almost one long gulp. Avoiding the topic? Who, me?
“Olly, you’re avoiding the topic.” Clark engulfed my right hand with his left.
How pathetic was it that I got a small thrill over this?
That he was touching me, and he had initiated the contact.
“Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than what I lay awake all night imagining.
Just tell me, slowly if you have to, but I can guarantee you’ll feel better once you get it off your chest.” He was projecting calm and collected with his voice, but his leg was shaking hardcore under the table.
It was almost endearing to see how hard he tried to hide his feelings, and how much failure was in the result.
His phrasing made me let out a bark of laughter, and why I don’t know, but I popped out with, “Do you know what nonbinary means? Not as it relates to space, but to gender.” He gently rubbed his thumb across the back of my hand repeatedly.
“Not really,” he admitted, looking a bit lost. “Though that’s not the place I thought this conversation would go.
I thought perhaps a bit more explanation on the indoor snowstorm was in order.
Did you know winter is my favourite season?
I-I’m rambling a little, sorry. Can we circle back to the snow, if we talk about what nonbinary is now?
If it’s important to you, you should give me a crash course, so I don’t embarrass myself getting it all wrong. ”