Page 53 of When You're Gone
Fielding turned his head to meet her gaze, his eyes flaring in anger. “It’s my turn to ask a question,” he clipped out.
She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding as he moved the game along.
“What areyouscared of?”
She scoffed. Of course he’d turn her question back around on her. She mentally catalogued a laundry list of answers: Cancer. Death. Disappointing people. Losing her dad. Losing her husband. Alcoholism. Not making an impact. Trying for nothing. She finally settled on the response that had been pressing down on her for months.
“Being numb forever.”
She chanced a glance up, but Fielding still wouldn’t meet her gaze. She realized he probably thought she was talking about her new boobs, but it wasn’t just that. It was so much more.
“I don’t just mean from the surgeries,” she insisted, eager to skirt past the awkward topic of mastectomy side effects. “It just feels like I’m stuck. I can’t move forward, and I can’t go back. Everything is dim around the edges, and I’m so damn scared it’s going to feel like this forever.”
He reached over to squeeze her knee once before pulling back.
She continued. “I’m desperate to feel something again. It’s like I’m chasing a high, seeking out something I think I remember but haven’t felt in a long time. Everything is dim all the time.”
“What makes it better?” he croaked out. She would have missed the question if she hadn’t been staring at his profile.
“Nothing really makes it better. But some things definitely make it worse. I guess some people make it easier to endure. As silly as it sounds, things don’t feel dim when I’m with you.”
He kept his gaze forward, his voice low and steady as he asked, “What does it feel like? When you’re with me?”
She sucked in a sharp breath, alarm bells blaring in her mind. She could tell by his tone and his somber expression that they were toeing a line she shouldn’t cross. “No follow up questions allowed, remember?”
He nodded solemnly, accepting her rejection just like she knew he would.
“Your turn in the hot seat.” She reclaimed her Gatorade bottle and took a sip of lukewarm tequila. Her alcohol-soaked brain scrambled for a lighter line of questioning. Something related to his earlier question? Maybe something about childhood?
“What do you want most in life?”
The words slipped out before she could vet them. Fielding locked eyes with her, his anger—was it anger?—palpable. His irises turned into a dark-blue storm of emotion as he glowered, turmoil and conflict clear in his gaze.
He didn’t respond. Not with words, at least. He resumed his bobblehead routine, shaking his head back and forth until she was dizzy from watching him.
But she wasn’t willing to let him slosh it off. She didn’t want subtle rejection. She wanted to hear him say it. Whatitwas, she didn’t know. Or if she knew, she wasn’t willing to admit it to herself.
She placed one hand outside the hot tub, steadying herself as she rose from her crossed-legged position to shift closer to where he sat. Her knees ground into the textured cement of the hot tub bench, but the pain didn’t register. Not much did, nowadays. She curled her fingers around the slick, sinewy muscles of his forearm.
“Don’t,” he warned, his voice sharp with resolve.
“Don’t what?”
If he wanted her to move, he could say it. A thrill of danger spiked inside her as she decided to see just how far she could push him. Sure, she might end up dunked under the water in the next three seconds, but getting her hair wet would be worth feeling something tonight.
Her shins scraped against the bench as she inched closer. She didn’t stop until she could feel the scratchy fabric of his board shorts brushing against her knees as they pressed into the side of his thigh.
“You didn’t take a drink, Fielding. You either have to answer me, or you have to take a drink.” Her words came out slower and softer than intended. She had meant to tease him: to throw a little sass, to taunt him with her witty banter. But as soon as she heard her own voice, she felt the gravity of her words.
Suddenly, her kneecaps touching his leg felt too intimate. But instead of moving away, she tightened her hold on his arm. She should have pulled back, made space. She knew that. In the reasonable part of her mind, she knew that.
But the darkness was winning tonight, like it had won so many nights lately. So instead of moving away, she leaned forward.
“Tori,” he growled. “I’m serious.Don’t.”
“Don’t. What?” she repeated, enunciating each word for emphasis.
Fielding grasped her hand underwater and peeled her fingers off his forearm. His touch was firm but not painful. He moved her hand onto the bench between them, pressing his hand on top of hers until her palm was flat, applying enough pressure to keep her locked in place.
