Page 47 of Vallaverse: Twist
My opinions about being touched have gone from nonchalance to extreme aversion since I left the hospital. The therapist Brooks set me up with says that it's a natural and understandable response and that these feelings have most likely been making their way to the surface for a while; they just needed a trigger event to become part of my conscious awareness. And now I am super aware of how much I don't want anyone but a very select few people to get close enough to smell, let alone touch me. Part of me will miss the easygoing person I was before, when I didn't care about all that much, but I'm better this way. My life can mean something. I can mean something. Caring hurts, but it's good.
I'm still horribly spoiled, though. Brooks spoiled me before I was with Kris, and then Kris spoiled me horribly. I like being spoiled, regardless of anything else, and I don't feel bad about the spoiling. The server brings over menus without prices, and I just smile at the choices.
“What do you think?” Brooks asks from behind his menu.
“I think I'd like three of everything,” I laugh, “but that's probably a terrible idea. I've been curious about this place for a while. Thank you for bringing me.”
“I've been here a few times,” he says. “Want me to order for us? I won't order anything with mushrooms.”
“You remembered.” I smile at him across the table.
“Of course I remembered. How could I forget sending a dish back six times because the kitchen staff picked them out when they should have just remade it?”
We both laugh at that. He ended up arguing with the chef over it. The chef was horribly offended that someone wouldn't want his slimy truffles in an otherwise amazing pasta dish.
“Go ahead,” I tell him, leaning back against my chair. “I trust you.”
He smiles, winking at me, and proceeds to order something from every section of the menu. He hesitated over the wine, but I'm not that kind of addict. I could drink a case of wine, and while it might make me feel a little friendlier and more giggly than usual, it wouldn't affect the hormone level in my bloodstream. Once assured, he ordered a bottle of something I don't want to try to pronounce, and the server was more than happy to trot off to the back of house.
Brooks is relaxed on his side of the table. His hands are loosely clasped in front of him, and if I looked underneath the table, I'm sure I would find his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He has always taken up space. He used to fill the space he claimed with a sort of menacing energy that kept everyone butme on edge; now his space feels warm. Calm. I'd even go so far as to say the energy surrounding Brooks is peaceful.
“How are you doing, Laz?”
I lean forward and rest my chin on my hands. “How are you doing? Valla.” I bat my eyes for effect.
He smirks. “Better than I was.”
“Me too.”
“I was very worried about you.”
Sighing, I look away from him and focus on the servers going back and forth from the kitchen. I know he was worried. How could he not be? I mean, he put his mark on me to keep me alive. A good bit of worry is understandable. I'm just ashamed that it had to happen, that it got to that point. Ashamed and embarrassed.
“You don't have to say anything,” Brooks says softly. “I just wanted you to know that I care.”
I smile at him, meeting his eyes again. “I know you do. Thank you. I don't think anybody else does or has for a long time.”
“You have me now.”
“And Mrs. Richards,” I add.
He grins. “And Mrs. Richards. She likes you.”
“Of course she does,” I laugh. “How could she not? I'm delightful.”
“You are.” The look he gives me when he says it makes me blush all over again.
“So,” I say, biting my lip, “are we just going to be okay? Like, without being dramatic first?”
“I, personally, have had all the dramatics I care to, if that's alright with you.”
I'm about to say something sarcastic and hilarious, but the server returns with the wine, and I let Brooks handle tasting and approving it. He really is handsome. He's a few years older thanme, firmly in the realm of distinguished gentleman. He's too hot for his own good. He's definitely too hot for my own good.
“What are you over there thinking about?” he asks, smirking.
I blush again. “Just you.”
He opens his mouth to say something else that's sure to make my face heat up again, but his brows drop heavily, shutting his expression down into something that is almost a scowl.
