Page 13 of The Bright Side of Brooding
The man had serious, broody maledown, and being subject to his stern, studious gaze unnerved me. I’d been thoroughly unnerved already today and didn’t much want to hang around with this bare naked feeling that came when he looked at me. Irritation pinched my neck and curled my toes in my boots as he just stood there another few seconds before speaking.
“Are you okay?”
A measure of my frustration drained instantly at the question. “Oh. Uh, yes. I’m fine.”
Those skewering eyes probed me again, but he nodded. So I nodded back because I didn’t have anything else to say.
“I’m here. If anything like that happens again. Don’t hesitate.”
“Thanks,” I said, my voice edging around a bubble of discomfort and confusion. Then I fled because I didn’t know how to stand there and act like his offering help didn’t unsettle me.
I trudged home, an odd mix of angry and pleased. The latter came thanks to the man’s offer, and I interrogated the thought to figure out why. Because it was nice? Maybe. I liked nice. But something in my chest niggled at me, telling me it was more than that. Because he was so drop-dead good-looking?Maybe.
I snorted at the idiocy of that thought as I stomped on the welcome mat, knocking as much snow and ice from my boots as possible, then quickly moved inside.The pretty man was nice to me, Pa!Not that I’d ever once confided in my father.
The other feeling there, twisted right up with the pleasure, was the anger. I knew exactly where that came from. I’d worked on and off over the years to tamp down the nonsensical response at being offered help, but it still rose up, snarling, especially in the heat of the moment.
The combination of growing up poor, and in a family where accepting help came in a close second to the mark of the beast, left me with a problem. Like now, when I reasoned things out and could see what was true, but stillfelt. The damn feelings kicked me in the shins.
Logically, I understood that accepting help made me human. In fact, I’d created a life out of doing that for others—I loved being a nurse and helping others. I loved feeding people in my spare time. I loved volunteering.
But when I fell into a position where I needed help, it felt almost intolerable. Itwasintolerable.
Of course that depended on what, exactly, someone was helping me with. But honestly, even small things like accepting a ride with a friend to an event or leaning on a girlfriend for emotional support—these things chafed. I wished I could say that time, distance, and therapy had allowed me to surmount the deeply entrenched thoughts about being helped, but I still fought it. As evidenced today, when Rob and Masters had stepped in, like they should’ve. It’s aSee Something, Say Somethingworld, and I wouldn’t want someone to fail to intervene for fear of the person not wanting help. What nonsense.
And yet, here I sat at my kitchen table, bothered down to my toes that not only had Nicholas Masters seen me in that awful situation thanks to Dennin, but now he’d offered his help for future use. Like I was a woman who frequently required it.
“There’s nothing wrong with needing help, as long as you know it makes you weak and useless.”With mantras like that, it was no wonder I had issues.
To be clear, I did recognize that needing help, and taking it, was acceptable. Good, even. I supported people doing that… I just found it completely awful for myself.
I’d developed a system over time. If I did accept help, I’d pay the person back. A lot of times, there wasn’t a direct way to do that—like with Rob and Masters. But I’d dosomethingfor them, and that’d loosen the stranglehold of guilt and shame enough to eventually let it go.
Never mind all that. Now I could relax with the garlic roasted chicken and kale salad and flip through the new cookbook I’d ordered as an incentive to get through the flu madness. I’d focus on the perfect photography and the airy white marble countertops the dishes were placed on in the photos. I’d dream up my own presentation, and compose the menu for the next feast night.
I’d forget all about Dennin, and Rob, and Nicholas Masters.
* * *
Not more than an hour later, my doorbell rang. A spike of alarm shot through me—could it be Dennin?
I moved quietly to the front of the house, phone in hand, and peeked out the window to see a retreating form, much larger than Dennin’s. I waited a moment, then cracked the door to find a familiar-looking envelope.
Grabbing the letter, I looked for him, but Masters must’ve already ducked back into his house. I did the same, greedily ripping into the little rectangle.
Ms. Applegate,
Thank you for yet another delicious meal. I’m not sure why you insist on spoiling me with these riches, but they enhance my days, whenever they come, and I cannot do anything but say thank you. That, and I can insist that should you ever need my help, you ask. I’m sorry for what happened earlier today, and I hope you’re not too rattled—not that you seem like a woman easily shaken, but rather that having someone forcefully at one’s doorstep is an altogether loathsome concept. I can hardly stomach anyone at my door, let alone a person I haven’t invited.
I hope you’ll be able to rest well and relax, and please, tell me if ever I can help you.
Sincerely,
Nicholas Masters
P.S. To be very clear, I hope you’ll consider yourself invited to my door as often as you choose.
Pure, unadulterated pleasure shimmered through me.
Well, then.
