Page 34 of Light Up The Night
“You cannot…" I shake my head, hating the tears—the intensity of the emotion causing them as well as the physical discomfort of them, the salty burn, the tightness in my throat, the embarrassment of them. "You cannot understand."
"Maybe not," he whispers, "but I'd sure love a shot at trying."
"Can we return to your home, please?" I whisper, fighting for composure. “I have had enough of being out in public for the moment."
He pulls away, and his next action nearly sends me into another tailspin.
He kisses my cheeks, under my eyes. "C'mon. Let's get you outta here."
Soft.
Sweet.
Gentle.
"Oh, do not give me hope, I pray," I breathe, but Riley is ahead of me, pressing the button on the light pole to engage the pedestrian crossing lights, and he cannot hear me. "Please, Riley Crowe of Three Rivers, do not give me hope. I cannot bear it."
Yet when he takes my hand to escort me across the street, his smile is so genuine, so bright, so dazzling that I cannot help but hope.
Risking death to aid others is frightening, yes. But I understand the risks. I have seen the worst that can happen, and I have to come to terms with the possibility of it happening to me.
What truly terrifies me into paralysis is the prospect of letting myself hope that this man, Riley Crowe of Three Rivers, could develop real feelings for me. That he could accept me as I am. That he could—
I cannot even think it. It is impossible.
There is no hope of that.
But for all that he has done for me, I owe him answers. I will tell him my truth, and I will accept the results, whatever that may be.
Chapter 6
RILEY
Igotta admit, her abrupt exit and subsequent statue act is a little freaky. Maybefreakyis the wrong word. Weird. I dunno. But her implication that I have to think something is wrong with her is a big, fat megaphone for her insecurities.
The drive back to my place is short and silent. I let her be, since it seems like when she's silent like this, it's best to just let her do what she needs to do.
The tears, though, man. Fuck, they kill me. When she looked up at me with those big green eyes all wet with tears, looking so lost and so hurt and so lonely, I just…
I wanted to kiss her. So motherfucking bad, I wanted to kiss her. I didn’t, because she deserves better than my bitch ass. This girl is a legit, certified genius, more saintly than Mother Theresa, and unless I'm way wrong, as innocent as I am the opposite.
I settled for kissing her tears away, which was a mistake. Just another nail in the coffin of my feelings, which will be decimated when she busts the fuck outta here for Africa, never to return.
We pull into the garage, and as seems to be the case with her, she doesn’t realize it. I don’t mind. It gives me an opportunity to look like I have manners when I open the door for her. If nothingelse, it puts her soft, warm little hand in mind, and fuck, I love that.
Walking around downtown Three Rivers with her, holding her hand? Man, I felt about ten feet tall. That girl? A 24-year-old Harvard-educated doctor, a missionary who speaks like a dozen fucking languages, who's drop-dead goddamned gorgeous to boot? She's so far outta my fuckin' league it ain't even funny. I can't evenseeher league from where I am.
Yet she doesn't seem to realize it.
Yet.
Once we're in the house, she beelines for the couch and sits down, palms on her knees, back straight as a ruler, and…does nothing.
She doesn't blink, barely breathes. Just sits there, staring at nothing.
But this seems to be how she thinks or copes or processes or whatever, so I leave her to it. I've got a handful of emails to go through—bios from inmates hoping for a slot in my program. I grab my laptop from the table and sit near her, but not touching, and start reading.
This only lasts for a few minutes—enough time to read through the first bio—and she…emerges, I suppose.
