Chapter 19 #2
“Nah, chere, they’re a gift.” He leads me towards the kitchen. “Thank me by enjoying them.”
I stare at him in bewilderment as he unpacks the ingredients for the dinner he’s making me.
This is by far and away the kindest gift I’ve ever received, and he’s shrugged it off like it’s no big deal and told me to just enjoy them.
My mind is so completely blown that he has to say my name twice to get my attention.
“You up for cooking with me? Need to chop some stuff,” he says.
It takes me a couple of beats to answer him. “Um, sure.”
He hands me a couple of peppers, one red, one yellow, and a knife, pointing me towards a chopping board. “Thanks. Can you dice these, please, and I’ll get started on the chicken.”
Not once does he criticise how I chop the peppers. He simply gets on with cubing the raw chicken, rather expertly, and begins chatting to me as we work side by side.
This is so great, I think to myself. I never realised the simple pleasure of cooking with someone, splitting the duties companionably, could be so.
..peaceful. And so much fun. I find myself smiling at him, laughing at a comment he makes about trusting me with his top secret family recipe, trusting me with something so intimate as this, and he’s so together and responsible and takes care of his possessions and I’m one of his possessions now and my heart starts to race in my chest and oh god oh god please not now. ..
My throat starts to close up. I cough once, trying to clear it, but it doesn’t do anything.
Icy cold fear creeps up my spine, and my hands start to shake until I can’t chop anymore.
I can’t feel my legs.
Shit. Run.
“Are you OK?” he asks, taking in my frozen expression.
I gape at him for a second before dropping the knife on the chopping board and rushing to pick up my bag.
“I have to go,” I mumble, my knees shaking, my heart rate picking up further.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, I...I can’t…I have to leave. I need to leave right now.”
“Hey, whoah,” he says, putting his own knife down and rushing towards me as I make for the door, “what’s wrong?”
I stop, rooted to the spot between the kitchen and the front door.
I don’t want to leave at all. I want to stay, and let myself be comforted and soothed by him.
I want to be persuaded that it’s all right.
I’m also desperate to run out the front door and just forget I ever knew him because the loveliness of it all is too much and it's overwhelming and terrifying me.
My mind is racing, and my throat still feels tight.
“Baby, talk to me,” he says in a calm voice with the tiniest hint of pleading, which breaks my heart.
I’m hurting him. How can I hurt him? How can I bring myself to do that?
He takes both of my elbows very gently and turns me around to face him, but I stare at the ground.
I can’t look at him. This poor man… Why am I such a basket case?
Why am I so petrified of just making dinner with him?
It doesn’t make any sense. “Talk me through it. Did I do something to freak you out?” he asks.
I manage to shake my head jerkily.
“OK, that’s good. Keep talking to me. Help me understand so I can help.” His hands are cold and gentle.
“I don’t know,” I mutter very quietly.
“That’s OK. Is it OK if I ask you about it?”
God, what’s the matter with me? He’s so sweet. “Mm-hmm.” I still can’t look at him, and he gently tips my chin up with one finger. His eyes are so kind, and very concerned, and they both steady me and make me feel like such a shit for freaking out.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“It’s OK.” He sounds like he really means it. “Take a couple of deep breaths.”
It takes me a few seconds, but once I do, the next one is easier. My shoulders, which were hunched, start to relax by degrees.
“Come and sit down with me,” he says gently.
If I do that, I’m not leaving. I look at the door, both hating it for tempting me and yearning for the freedom on the other side.
I look back at him.
All of a sudden, the panic ebbs. His dear face...he’s staying calm and solid for me, and I can’t believe I ever thought running away from him was a good idea.
“What happened?” he asks, and one of his hands is still on my arm, gentle but firm. I know he’d let go if I pulled, and that’s the difference, I realise.
Eli will never deliberately hurt me, no matter what. No matter how much I irritate him, or freak out, or however many bad days I have, he will never yell at me, frighten me, exert force, or harm me in any way. He will never consider himself 'provoked'.
What have I been so afraid of?
“This is gonna sound really stupid,” I say as we sit, forcing the words out of my throat with difficulty. I can feel them like a blockage choking me. I find this so hard.
“It’s OK. I won’t laugh. I won’t be mad.” He means it, too.
I take a deep, steadying breath. “We were happy,” I say.
“Mm-hmm,” he says, waiting for more.
I look at him helplessly, tears threatening, but I won’t give in to them.
“That’s it. We were happy. I was happy. Just in that moment, and…
” I take another shaky breath. “It felt like too much. Like I have so much to lose now, and I never meant to put myself in that position again, but…it’s you, so of course I have, and of course I want to.
I do. Your lovely gifts, and just...just chatting normally while we cooked, like a healthy couple would, and the laughing, and…
I got scared. Scared of being happy. It's so… It’s messed up. ”
He lets out a soft sigh and gently rests his head on mine.
“It’s OK to be happy,” he says quietly, as though not to spook me.
Poor man, I think. Having to tread this carefully with a girlfriend who’s scared of feeling good.
“It’s what you deserve. And...I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to it, chere.
” He kisses my forehead and strokes my hair.
He still wants me. The man I tried to run from still wants me, even with all my nonsense.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, but he catches my lips gently with his.
“Don’t be. We’ll get there. Just...don’t run, OK?
Promise you’ll always talk to me first.” He looks me straight in the eye, and I’ll promise this warm and patient man anything if he won’t give up on me.
If he'll always help fight my demons next to me. “If you really want to go, I won’t make you stay, but...please don’t just run.
” He gives me an assessing look, seeing how much of a flight risk I still am. “OK?”
I nod. “OK,” I say calmly.
He smiles, and I feel a whole lot better. Embarrassed, but like it’s all going to be fine. “OK, so, I have chicken-y hands and I put those hands on you, so why don’t you, ah, hop into the shower, and I’ll get the rest of dinner done,” he says, smiling gently.
“But don’t you need a hand?”
“Nah,” he says with a cheeky grin, “been making jambalaya since before I could spell it. I’m good.”