Page 48 of Holiday Love
“So sorry, m’lady.” I pretend to bow, and the paper towel slips from my head, drifting to the floor. I scoop it back up and slap it on.
I try again. “Hello, Helen. I’m Lindsey. How’s it going?” I wave a hand at her, urging her to continue the conversation.
Helen straightens, her back ramrod straight and stiff. “I’m fine, Lindsey, and how are you today?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not at a job interview. You’re talking to a potential friend. Relax!” Without thinking, I lean forward, ignoring how the change in position makes my cast dig into my thigh, and put my hands on her shoulders. She’s tense, way too tense, so I massage her, kneading her muscles, careful not to press too hard. With a whoosh of exhaled breath, she relaxes into my touch and her eyes drift closed.
“That feels good, right there,” she mumbles, her head lolling.
That feels good, right there.
Helen from a year ago whispers in my ear. Her eyes had been closed back then, too. When my hand was between her legs. I shake away the memory.
You’re housemates. Friends. Kind of,I remind myself, using my sternest internal voice. My dick doesn’t get the memo. It twitches. She moans again, and I release her, backing off before things get out of hand.
Her eyes blink open. Oblivious to the blood rushing to my dick, she says, “Sorry. Tell me again, what should I do?”
I settle back, pulling a pillow into my lap to hide what’s going on down there, and take her in. Helen’s cheeks are still flushed from laughing, but her expression’s already gone serious again. That’s the thing with her—joy always feels like something she borrows, not something she owns.
“Hellcat, you don’t have to say anything brilliant,” I say gently. “What are you afraid of, exactly? Not knowing what to say?”
She hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I get so in my head that I worry I’ll say the wrong thing and make it worse.”
“So don’t say anything. Just…be there. Listen. Let her talk.” I pause. “That’s all people really want, anyway.”
She fidgets with the hem of her leotard. “I’ve tried to figure this out before, but it never works.”
She’s spiraling, I can see it. I scoot an inch closer and lower my voice. “Maybe this time will be different.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and, for a second, she looks so unsure it almost hurts to see. This is a woman who can rattle off a hundred pages of obscure medical knowledge from memory. But human communication terrifies her.
“You’re brave, Helen,” I say. “Not because you never mess up. Because you keep trying anyway.”
Her mouth opens like she’s about to argue, then she shuts it. Her eyes shimmer a little too brightly, and her lower lip pokes out. “I don’t feel brave. I feel like a mess.”
“Same.” I point to my broken leg. “I’m limping around, losing my job, changing my major. I’m the poster child for feeling like a mess.” I say it casually, but the truth in my words makes my stomach turn over.
Who am I to offer advice when my own life is such a dumpster fire?
She gives me a weak smile and, maybe sensing that I need it, says, “At least you look good doing it.”
“Aw. Was that a compliment?”
She rolls her eyes. Not as sarcastically, softer now. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
A silence stretches between us. Comfortable, but charged. I think we’re both aware of how close we’re sitting. I could reach out and brush her hair from her face, tuck it behind her ear, but I’m not who someone like her wants or needs, so I don’t.
After a beat, I break the silence. “Let’s do it again. Hi! I’m Lindsey.”
She visibly forces herself to relax. “Hi, Lindsey. Nice to see you.”
“Good.” I grin, pride swelling in my chest. “Now ask me a question about myself.”
She thinks, scrunching her nose, then brightens and says, “Okay! How’d you get into dance?”
I make something up. “I saw a ballet on TV and begged for lessons. How about you?”
This time her response is quick and smooth. “My mom was a professional dancer before she had me. She started me in lessons when I was three. I don’t remember evernotdoing it. Dancing was something we shared. She’d even substitute teach at the dance studio when a teacher called in sick.”
