Page 19 of Worth the Want
“Occasionally,” I confirm.
“Good to know.”
“Yeah?”
She clears her throat. “Okay, well. I’m sorry I saw you naked,” she says and then shakes her head.
“Are you?” The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it. I’m finding it difficult to keep my head around this woman.
“I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.” I don’t miss the distinction.
“I’m comfortable, Indie. And covered now,” I tell her, watching the blush on her cheeks spread to her neck. I’m sure if I could see it, her chest would be the same color. “Are you alright?”
“I-I’m fine,” she breathes out, trying her best to keep her gaze fixed on the lake.
“Good.”Is it good?I have no idea, but something in mewantsher to be comfortable with me.
She swallows, nodding. “Great. Right. Thank you. I’ll get out of your way now, I’m sure you have things to do and clothes to put on. I should leave. So, bye!” she rushes out, hopping down the stairs like a scared rabbit, making a beeline for her car, looking more athletic than I’d given her credit for. Her windows are down, and I can’t help my grin, hearing her fit of laughter, seeing her shoulders shake as I watch hercar take off again, leaving a little cloud of dust in her wake and an odd feeling in my chest.
I go through the motions of drying off and getting dressed in a daze. Only able to think of Indiana—Indie—her mouth hanging open, what other T-shirts she may have, and how she might look in one of mine.
“Can I get a manager to checkout, please?” I hear a bored voice announce over the intercom at the small grocery store in Silverthorne. I glance around, surmising that the cashier could have just yelled it, and the manager would have heard it. I’ve been walking the aisles for the past fifteen minutes. My brain refuses to focus on anything but the memory of a very grumpy—very naked—Knox Holloway.
His rippling abs, his chest hair—oh god the chest hair—the way his damp hair curled on the ends, his eyes…on me, that flash of ink on his thigh, and theVpointing directly to his?—
“Excuse me,” a woman's voice calls at my side. I jump, shrugging off the memory that's playing out like a cinematic masterpiece on repeat. “Are you planning on buying that?” Her tone would suggest that I had better.
Looking down at my hands, I see that I am holding a vegetable. A zucchini, to be more specific. I don’tlovehow my hands are positioned on it. To be honest, I don’t even remember picking it up. “I’m sorry…y-yes. I am,” I say, putting it in my shopping basket and escaping down the cereal aisle.What the fuck am I going to make with zucchini?I have no idea, but I couldn’t put it back after the look that lady gave me.
“Oh my god, Indie. You’re going to get labeled as the town weirdo already.”I can hear what my sister would tell me if she were here. I smile; she would be right.Okay, Indiana. Focus!You need meals for the week and snacks. A lot of snacks.
While I throw things into my cart, I already know future me is going to be pissed that there was no planning put into this grocery haul. My stomach grumbles again, fueling the chaotic energy this trip is giving. I look into my basket. Cookies, crackers, bacon, cereal, bread, cheese, one lone zucchini, a bottle of wine, tea bags, and frozen fries.Dinner of champions.
I’m thinking tonight is going to be a recovery night. I need junk food and TV.
Except, it occurs to me now that I forgot to ask about the Wi-Fi situation and if I’ll be able to sign into my Netflix account. I don’t think I could bring myself to ask Knox a question today—to face him at all. I can’t even think about him without clenching my thighs together. Looks like it could be a night to catch up on reading then. I have a good romantic thriller that I've been switching back and forth between the audio and my Kindle.
I had just gotten to the part where the struggling writer hears about the first murder that happened in her new town years prior, and she starts piecing together a pattern of other murders in the neighboring towns. I already have a few theories about who the killer may be—it’s the same person I also think she’s going to fall for. I grin just thinking about it.
I fall into the category of true-crime enthusiast—I have a shirt that says as much. I think it’s a misunderstood genre. I’mobviously not a fan of the horrific acts. It’s more about the justice served. It’s when we catch the bad guy. It’s the feeling of human camaraderie that comes with a survivor's story being told. I celebrate the cold cases that get solved with the new platform it’s given.
I look down, seeing the shirt I threw on today, and my cheeks flush thinking about seeing my landlord,stark naked,in all his delicious glory while I was standing there with a big T-shirt that has a bad pun on it. It’s not that I’m ashamed of my shirt collection—I am obsessed with them—but I also recognize that Knox doesn’t know me very well.I don’t think he wants to know me very well.
But I’m working on a plan to change that because I kind of like this new place on the lake, and the idea of potentiallynothaving to move my things again is appealing.
The first phase of the plan: don’t see him naked again. This one is solely for him. I could see that every day of my life, andoh god,it would be a really good life. Personal space is important to most people. I didn’t get that gene. I’m overly affectionate, and the lines between friendly and friendship are often blurred for me. That would be all thanks to my trusty SPD.
Sensory Processing Disorder.
I wasn’t diagnosed until I was in my early twenties, when a basic college course load was causing me to feel overwhelmed constantly. It was a daily occurrence for me to feel out of place or need to find a calming environment. Everything was overstimulating. I was isolating myself more and more. My friends started to worry about me, thinking I was depressed—and to be honest, I think I was.
I wasn’t sure where it had come from—seemingly out of nowhere. I had always been loud and outgoing. Getting introuble in school a lot for talking, but I always had good grades, so no one thought there was cause for concern. I had friends, I played sports, I graduated with honors. It wasn’t until the chronic exhaustion and never-ending headaches that my parents stepped in and made sure I got some support.
Meditation and other various exercises were suggested, but nothing stuck. One day, a girl in my dorm was going for a run with her track team. Impulsively, I joined. I went for a run almost every day after. Running gave me the time to decompress, to reflect on all the things I had done and wanted to get done in a way that felt less overwhelming. It made my life feel manageable.
My behavioral specialist said this was because my brain was tricked into thinking I was checking items off my to-do list, making things I needed to get done feel more achievable. Coping and putting systems into place when I start feeling like things are too much has been a lifesaver. I think one of the reasons I was looking forward to being here is that my job will be slower paced for the most part. The city feels like too much these days. Too many people and too many memories.
My hand finds its way up to my left shoulder, where I know a faint scar sits. Flashes hit me without permission, threatening to overtake me here in the middle of the grocery store.It’s dark, and the humidity is smothering me.That familiar high-pitched keening rings in my ears.Refocus, distract until it’s manageable.
