Page 24 of Falling Backwards (The Edge of Us #1)

By the time Lucent is closing for the night, I feel weird. It’s a fine weirdness in some ways—a kind of dreamy peace that I don’t mind—and in other ways, it’s got me chilled and uneasy.

The rain picked up a few times as the day went on. I heard of flash flooding in some places around town, and I’m not sure if that has subsided yet, but it is still raining. In any case, several of our guests decided to cancel their reservations for this afternoon and evening, which left us with a surprising amount of slow time for a Saturday.

Some deep cleaning got done around here, so that was good, but eventually I had so little to do that I decided it’d be okay to relax a bit and watch the weather from the bar windows. Although part of me thought it would be unprofessional even with the windows in clear view of the hostess stand, an even bigger part had the steady feeling that it’d be okay. The restaurant was quiet and things were moving at a snail’s pace. By then, Luke was off work, so even he couldn’t have distracted me.

Not in person, anyway.

But one helpful thing that the thought of him did was remind me of how nothing bad happened at the sporting goods store when I broke the unspoken fitting room rule. Even though I hadn’t done what I thought I was supposed to, no harm was caused. No employee drama ensued. I went with the flow of the situation and things turned out fine.

If I’d been able to ask Luke about weather watching, I knew he’d support me doing it. And instead of that making me want to do it even less, I felt comforted.

It was nice. The outdoors were drab and blustery, but somehow I was soothed by looking out at them.

Even if it was conducive to my mind freely running in a circle.

It went all over Luke and what happened in the breakroom, which I couldn’t even pretend to regret despite that I’m normally not that intrepid, playfully or otherwise.

And my mind went all over how I couldn’t help missing him being in the building not just because his absence made everything seem duller, but also because it made me feel unsettled.

Indeed, the latter is where my not-good weird feeling has come from. It has steadily built up over the last few hours with the weather being unpleasant, Lucent being far emptier than not, Ronald being as in-charge as an assistant manager can be from his office, and Luke not being around to smooth it all out.

I kept thinking about how Kyle knows I work here. About how he might come through the door at any minute and how the only person in view would be the petite female bartender and how maybe I could get Ronald up here to help me before Kyle did anything creepy but maybe I couldn’t.

It left me quaky. Anxious.

I couldn’t very well ask Luke to come back and calm me down, though. We texted during my break, which came shortly after he got off work, and he said he might watch some TV at home. I wanted him to do that. I wanted him to do whatever sounded fun and relaxing. Interrupting his free time and asking him to make a special trip here just so I’d feel better wouldn’t have been okay with me—Kyle wasn’t even here.

So to distract myself from rootless nervousness about Kyle, I turned to thinking about me and Luke, which left me…tangled.

It’s a loop I’ve been stuck in.

And that’s why, yes, I feel weird as Ronald comes to the front of the house to unlock the door and let me, bartender Tia, and server Dan out into the rainy night.

At least I know Luke has arrived and is in one of the spots right outside. They’re supposed to be for Lucent patrons only, but at an hour like this and on a day like today, it’s not a problem for him to pick me up here. Even I will admit that.

I exchange goodbyes with Tia and Dan, and they share his umbrella as they head for the employee parking lot. I rush to the passenger side of Luke’s car, the door of which opens from the inside when I get close.

The second I’m shut in, I’m utterly overwhelmed by the safe, dry warmth of the cabin.

“Hey,”

he greets me.

A relieved sigh puffs out of me.

“Hey. Gosh, I’m happy to see you.”

The unplanned words leap through my stomach and echo between us.

“Are you?”

he asks curiously.

I shiver, shiver, shiver and buckle my seatbelt. Figure I may as well tell the whole truth.

Turning his way, I rub my cold hands together. Thanks to the light pole outside, he’s pretty visible, and it’s a great thing; the shifting shadows of raindrops all over him bring something soft yet striking to his face.

“Yes,”

I answer.

“Work was so, so slow—I got so bored I even left my stand a few times and just watched the rain. Then it started getting really eerie how quiet and empty the restaurant was, and I got nervous wondering what would happen if Kyle showed up. I’ve been circling anxiety for probably three hours thinking about him bothering me without anybody being able to stop him.”

Luke gives a lazy wave.

“Nah, I would’ve stopped him.”

“Of course—if you were here.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Exactly. I’m saying I started getting worried this evening, a while after you were gone.”

“And I’m saying I’ve been out here since 7:03. I was only gone for, like, an hour and a half.”

My hands still their rubbing.

He adds.

“If he was gonna show up and walk in the building, I was going in right after him.”

Astonished, I stare at him.

He’s been here nearly the whole time?

It’s only now that I really process how everything looks in this car. There’s a mostly empty bottle of water in the cupholder, next to his phone, which is charging. A closed-up fast food bag is tucked away in my floorboard. I realize he’s lounging in his seat in the cool-and-unconcerned way I’ve seen many times at Merritt’s, but it doesn’t annoy me, doesn’t make me think he hasn’t been taking anything seriously.

It seems he has been taking things very seriously.

“You’ve…”

I frown.

“…you’ve been sitting out here for hours?”

“Yep.”

“Just to watch out for me?”

“Yep.”

I murmur.

“Luke, it’s Saturday night. There were things you wanted to do for yourself, weren’t there? And didn’t you get bored or cold or uncomfortable?”

“Nah, I’ve been fine.”

I have a hard time buying that.

After a few moments of me staring some more, he rolls his eyes.

“Okay, if you must know. I got home after work and tried to think of what I wanted to do until it was time to come pick you up, and I decided on TV, right?”

I nod.

“When we were texting.”

“Right. Well, then you went back to work and I couldn’t get into any shows—I tried three different ones—because all I could think about was….”

He gestures at me, then lets his hand rest on his thigh.

I put my hand in his pocket earlier, I recall for the hundredth time. My heart skips a beat.

It skips another as I replay his trailed-off words. All he could think about while we were apart was me.

“So,”

he says.

“I realized there were a few things I’ve been meaning to do and that I could do them on my phone while I sat here. Didn’t have to be at home. I got some food and came over and had no trouble whiling away the time and also keeping a lookout.”

I can’t help it: all of this melts me a little bit.

More than a little bit, really.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”

I ask.

“Why didn’t you come into the restaurant or something?”

He chortles wryly.

“Wasn’t interested in you trying to talk me out of my decision.”

Now I roll my eyes.

“You know you would’ve tried to,” he says.

“Of course I would have.”

“There you go. I shot Ronald a text, though, so at least he would be aware.”

As his eyes go over my face, they start to soften. Bit by bit, his amusement fades.

“But look, I’m—I’m sorry. It sounds like I should’ve told you too. Since you’re not really alone when you’re here, it didn’t occur to me that you’d be afraid without me. I thought you’d do what you always do and focus on work. Thought it was enough that I knew I was here.”

I twiddle my thumbs and admit.

“I didn’t think I’d be afraid either.”

“Truly, I’m sorry.”

Sincerity looks damn good on him.

Not so deep down, I ache over how familiar and unfamiliar I am with sweet, honest Luke. I wish he could stick around forever. He’s so much better than the Luke that hurts my heart.

After a slow blink and a breath to match, I focus on how appreciative I am for now.

“No, it’s okay I didn’t know. Your thoughts make sense. Thank you for being here.”

“Yeah. You’re welcome.”

He contemplates me, then shifts closer, putting his elbow on the compartment between us. Tingles stir all throughout me at this new proximity.

Then I notice his brow has furrowed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

“Tell you what?”

I ask back.

“That you felt so nervous. Why didn’t you text me or call me?”

I give him a look.

“We’re not supposed to have our phones on us outside of break times, so mine was in my locker.”

He gives the look back to me.

“An exception can be made for situations like this. Remember what you said the other day about only keeping one’s phone in emergency times? At the very least, you could’ve taken two minutes to go to the breakroom and call me.”

Mmm. He’s got me there.

I hunch my shoulders.

“Well, I….”

His eyebrows go up, but the action is oddly patient.

Truth time again.

My shoulders loosen as I sigh.

“It’s like you said: I didn’t want you to spend your free time being inconvenienced by me.”

“So you just suffered?”

“Somewhat, I guess,” I mumble.

“You didn’t need to do it at all.”

“Well, you were right, it’s not like I was by myself. Other people were there—not many, but still. My imagination or paranoia or whatever just—”

“No, don’t do that.”

He calmly shakes his head.

“Don’t act like you don’t have the right to be scared. It’s true I didn’t think you would be ’cause you were around other people, but that doesn’t mean you were stupid to be. If I was wrong, I was wrong. You weren’t wrong to be nervous.”

I instinctively open my mouth as if to hold my ground, like my body can’t help being ready to counter him, but words don’t come. On the inside, my resolve is fading fast.

What he’s said makes sense yet again.

Maybe it’s because I haven’t mentioned that Tia and out-of-sight Dan and Ronald didn’t offer me much comfort even if they were technically nearby. Luke doesn’t know how ‘around’ people I was or wasn’t. And he doesn’t care. He only cares about how I felt.

So I don’t have the urge to insist anything else or try to make him see my point. He sees me already, in his own way.

I nod my understanding. My agreement.

“Tell me anytime,”

he says.

“It doesn’t matter what’s going on or—or what time it is or anything like that. You feel afraid, you come to me. That’s all you gotta do. I’ll take it from there.”

The words get me. So intent, so sweet.

“Okay?”

he checks.

“Okay,”

I say softly.

With a nod of his own, he shifts back into his seat, then buckles up so we can get going.

It occurs to me after we hit the rainy road that I don’t know what kind of driver he is in bad weather. A new twinge of worry hits my stomach because what if he doesn’t respect how wet the street is or how deep some puddles might be or…?

Well, he seems to be doing fine so far.

Except for one thing.

“Can you please use your blinkers?”

I request over the sound of the windshield wipers slicking over splashing rain.

“This again?”

he questions.

“Yes, this again. It bothers me that you don’t use them, especially on a night like this when people need as much warning of our actions as they can get.”

“I’m capable of keeping us safe.”

“But other cars might—”

“I’m watching other cars.”

He gestures around us.

“You know, all two of them that are anywhere in view.”

It’s true that there’s not much going on where we are, but I still wish he’d do what he’s supposed to do. What does it matter that the only cars I see are quite a ways away and no one is behind us? Does Luke also not bother stopping at traffic lights and stop signs when he’s the only car around?

He probably doesn’t, I think in a grumble.

Maybe he does, though, another part of me allows.

“I’m not going too fast,”

he adds.

“or texting or messing with the radio or anything else dangerous.”

True again—and not only regarding tonight, I guess, since I’ve noted before that he isn’t a reckless driver in general. There was that one time in my apartment’s lot that upset me, and he actually did get pulled over not long ago for not fully stopping at a stop sign, but…. It’s just such a pet peeve of mine that he won’t use his turn signals. There’s literally no harm in using them.

But after the evening I’ve had, I can’t seem to decide between trying harder to convince him of my rightness and trying to convince myself that it’s not truly a battle worth fighting. So I change the subject.

“Okay, well, what’s the thing you were gonna tell me about Dan? Or not about Dan, since you said he just got you thinking earlier.”

Luke is quiet for a few moments. Then he huffs out a laugh that sounds only somewhat amused. Then he’s quiet again.

While he figures out what he wants to say, I let my gaze settle on his hands. They’re both on the steering wheel in a way that looks calmly confident—a perfect match for what he was saying about not being an irresponsible driver. And they’re…nice. They’re nice to look at. There’s an obvious strength about them. A strength I’ve felt a few times.

I can’t help wondering what it’d feel like to have one of them sliding into my pocket the next time I wear pants that aren’t leggings.

It doesn’t stay a wonder for long, though; it quickly becomes an imagining so clear my breath catches. He’d be calmly confident in that action, too, I’m sure, and I’d feel so feminine especially if it were my back pocket, and also because his hand would be all masculine and probably too big since girl pants pockets are always—

“I got written up earlier ’cause I called your ex a jackass to his face.”

My eyes fly wide from shock and having my thoughts interrupted.

I whirl a look to him. “What?”

It’s mostly dark in here, but I still catch his slow nod in the streetlights we’re passing.

“What happened? Why would you do that?”

Once again, he doesn’t speak right away.

I can’t seem to quit talking, though.

“You got written up, Luke? Like, formally? And it was because you cussed at a customer—you insulted a customer—and of all the random people it could’ve been, it was Marcus?”

I scoff.

“Oh my Lord, there I was not long ago, telling you not to cuss where guests could hear, and you’ve gone a step further than that on purpose.”

“Well, he insulted you first.”

My heart leaps into my throat and my mouth snaps shut.

My brain replays that sentence, and again.

Luke did it because…Marcus said something mean about me?

“I’ll tell you what happened if you want me to,”

he goes on.

“Tell you what he said. It’ll probably upset you, though. It upset me. And I told him to apologize, but he wouldn’t, so yeah, I called him an insufferable jackass and happily accepted my write-up for it.”

My pulse is so fluttery, it’s like my veins are trying to fly out of me.

I don’t know if I’m more embarrassed that Marcus was talking about me behind my back or moved that Luke didn’t put up with it.

I swallow at the strange feeling rising in my throat.

“You happily accepted your write-up.”

“Yeah, fuck that dude. He deserved way worse than what I said, honestly.”

Moved.

I’m more moved than embarrassed.

So much so that I don’t know what else to respond with.

He says.

“Dan’s hair kind of looks like Marcus’s, so that’s why I got lost in thought when he came into the breakroom. He reminded me of what happened.”

As I turn my eyes from him to the rainy windshield, all I can manage is a breathy, “Oh.”

What did Marcus say about me that upset him so much? How did he insult me?

Luke said he would tell me, but at the moment, I can’t actually bring myself to ask him to. Humiliation may not be the biggest thing I feel, but I do feel it; adding in how self-conscious I’ve already been when it comes to my ex doesn’t make me any more eager to hear the whole story.

So we slip into quietude and stay in it for the rest of the drive.

The next thing that gets said is his.

“Sorry I don’t have an umbrella,”

as we’re parking at my apartment building. Since it’s a Saturday night, there are better spaces available than usual, but we’re still going to get wet on the way to the door.

“It’s okay,”

I reply, preparing to exit the car at the same time as him. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

We swing out into the rain, and it somehow feels colder now than it did when I was hurrying through it outside of Lucent.

“Ah!”

I shriek, holding my arms above my head. They don’t shield me whatsoever.

Luke’s laughter is unexpected through the deluge.

“Holy shit, it’s freezing!”

“Run, run, run!”

Our feet splash helplessly into all the miniature puddles that have built up over the day, sending that frigid water up over my poor pantyhose-clad legs. The rain seems to attack from every other side as a chaotic breeze sweeps through, and I notice Luke lifting his own arms above his head, and it makes me laugh because I’m so aware myself of how pointless that is to do.

But my laughter turns into a gasp as he slips on the wet ground and pitches forwards, his feet going out from underneath him.

“Ow, fuck!”

hits the air at the same time as my.

“Oh my God! Luke!”

I hurry to him and crouch to where he’s on all fours on the concrete. He didn’t faceplant—his hands and knees caught him—but that can’t have felt good.

“Are you okay?”

I ask over the rain.

He says.

“Yeah, I’m fine,”

but his tone leaves me unsure. I take his arm and stand with him, noting how he cradles one of his hands against his chest. “Ouch.”

Mmhmm. People don’t say, ‘Ouch,’ unless they’re hurt. I’ll bet he scraped his palm or something.

We continue on our way, still hurrying but not the way we did before. Based on how he’s moving, I’d also be willing to bet one of his knees is unhappy with him.

Once we’re in the building, wet and shivering and finally well-lit, I pull his hand from his chest by the wrist so I can look at it. I gasp again at the rough, red scrape that really is there.

“It’s fine,”

he assures me.

“No, it’s not. I know that hurts.”

He hustles me towards the elevator, but I inspect the wound as best I can while we go. Even though there’s not a lot of blood, there is a bit—it’s one of those scrapes that are just deep enough to bother someone.

“I’m sorry,”

I tell him.

“I’ll live.”

“Sure, but scrapes are a pain in the ass.”

He tsks and looks at his hand again too.

“Yeah, they are.”

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

By the time we’re upstairs, we’ve discovered he does have a slightly skinned knee and that his other hand, while not as bad as the first one, is a bit scraped as well.

And I’ve decided not to let him leave right after seeing me into the apartment like usual.

I unlock the door, flip on the light, and hold my arm out in an, ‘After you,’ way.

“Let me fix those scrapes real fast.”

He gives me a look like I’m worrying for nothing, but then his lips turn up in amusement.

“I told you they’re okay.”

“I see a little blood on at least one hand, which means you have an open wound, which means—”

“Oh my God,”

he laughs out now, stepping through the doorway, cutting brightening eyes along me.

“Fine, bossypants. But if you make them worse somehow….”

“No, you can trust me not to hurt you.”

I’m not sure if the vow crackles on the air for him to feel, too, or if it’s just for me—not sure if it’s abruptly loud only in my head because of how often I’ve been thinking of the time I did break his trust and hurt him.

And there was that time at work when he said I can trust him and I bit back with doubt.

After I lock us into the apartment, I get brave enough to look at him. I find he’s studying his palms, expression unreadable all of a sudden. It’s not clearly calm and not clearly bitter.

For some reason, that worsens the crackle in my head, my chest. I open my mouth and start to say his name, not knowing what might follow but feeling sharply that something, anything, needs to be said about how bad I feel for when I….

But I notice there is a bit of tightness growing at the corners of his eyes.

I remember we aren’t supposed to talk about things that will lead to us getting into a fight, and that’s exactly what’ll happen if I bring up immature me telling all our classmates about sixteen-year-old Luke’s rawest pain.

Even if I do it so I can apologize, the topic is going to upset him.

It’s also going to remind me of why I did what I did, and then I’ll be upset.

And the stability we’ve created will be ruined.

My lips press together without anything having passed them. I don’t want to fight with him or ruin our stability.

“You gonna help with my scrapes?”

he asks measuredly, still looking at his hands.

“Or are you gonna keep staring at me?”

I inhale deeply, my brain now turning towards worry that he has become aggravated with me and wants to leave after all.

However, I believe if that were the case, he’d be on his way out the door.

“Yes, I’m gonna help.”

I finally take off my wet coat and shoes. As I hang the coat on the wall hook, I add, “Sorry.”

He seems to have more words on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t let them out. He just shifts his gaze across the floor to my legs, seemingly, then down to my feet. He takes his shoes off, too, and follows me when I head for the kitchen.

Focusing on finding Neosporin and Band-Aids doesn’t quite take my mind off how awkward things have begun to feel, but it does help. Guiding him through gently washing his hands is better. He likes the warm water on the parts that are cold from being outside, but his injuries don’t appreciate being agitated, and the joke I spontaneously make about suing the property owners gets a smile out of him.

He says.

“Nevermind that I was the one running on a wet surface, though, right?”

“Well, obviously, if they had some of those yellow warning signs set up, then you would’ve known it was dangerous to run out there. I think this is all their fault.”

It’s so stupid, my attempt at humor, but it has chuckles bubbling up out of him.

Does he really think I’m funny or is he distracting himself from the sting of his hands…and the sting of other things?

Either way, his amusement settles the bit of tension that was here before.

After he has carefully dried his hands with a paper towel, I set to work at applying the Neosporin on the worst areas.

“I can’t really bandage all these spots,”

I tell him.

“but at least the most uncomfortable ones will get covered up.”

“That’s fine. The smaller places will feel better all by themselves in no time.”

“Mmhmm.”

Shortly, he’s as fixed up as I can get him. I’ve even convinced him to pull up his pants leg and let me tend to the scrape on his knee; even though it’s not bleeding much at all, it’s still kind of raw to look at, so it seems best to put a Band-Aid between that and the texture of his jeans.

He thanks me while I start washing my own hands again, and something in his tone makes me think he has slipped back into thought.

My stomach twists with fresh worry that he’s back to thinking of the dark places in our past now that there’s nothing to be preoccupied by.

I mean, I don’t know for sure that it was on his mind before, but the tension is so familiar—I’m so familiar with how Luke’s vibe changes when he’s feeling resentful towards me. The strain has been as obvious between us as air in lungs ever since I started working at Lucent. Undoubtedly, he’s picked up on the same thing from me over these many months.

I’m not sure what to do about it.

And I don’t have time to try to figure it out before the sound of the front door unlocking meets my ears. He and I both look over as Joy comes in with a glare at the floor and annoyance all over her.

“Hey,”

I call out, drying my hands.

“Are you all right?”

Her expression says she’s about to answer with vehemence, but then she looks up from setting her umbrella aside and spots Luke. She summons some composure.

“Hey, you two.”

After a sigh, she adds.

“My blind date was stupid, that’s all. I mean, the experience was stupid, not the guy—”

she scowls.

“—except, honestly, I did think he was stupid because he thought I was stupid and—but hey, girl, I’ll tell you later. I need pajamas and a hot chocolate before I even try to get into all that.”

I’m reminded of the wet-animal look that Luke and I still have going on. I agree on the need for warm pajamas, and I’m sure he’s ready to get home and get comfortable himself.

Maybe he’ll put on those sweatpants he bought, I dare to imagine. Get into a t-shirt with a hoodie or something.

I feel warmer just thinking about it—and about how cozy it must be to snuggle with him when he wears things like that.

I tune in to him and Joy exchanging goodbyes; he’s just said he’s about to leave.

Once she’s shut into her room, I tell him.

“I’ll walk you to the door.”

He doesn’t say anything back as he heads that way, which makes my insides feel uneasy again.

I fret about it while he puts his shoes on. What do I do? Should I ask if he’s okay? Should I leave it be? Would checking on him make him act even more…whatever…towards me?

Still haven’t figured it out by the time he’s stepping into the hall.

I hold the door and stammer.

“Um, g-goodnight. Be careful. I hope your hands feel a lot better soon. I’m really—really so sorry you fell.”

Now I feel bad about that because he fell while we were running to the building because he’s been seeing me all the way up to this door because he’s pretending to—

“Hey.”

I blink and blink and realize I have his full attention…

…which…

…is not as tense as I was expecting.

It’s intense, but not tense. He looks like something is on his mind, yes, but he doesn’t seem upset or even sad.

Rather stupidly, I echo, “Hey.”

His eyes cling to mine, so blue beneath his rain-dampened mess of raven hair.

“You’re the ten,” he says.

Confusion touches me now. “What?”

But as those eyes drift away from my face, over my own wet hair, down over my dress and pantyhose-clad legs and shoeless feet, his words jog something in my memory.

My stomach clenches.

Shocked sentiment closes hard around my throat.

As I stare at him staring at me, I think to myself that he can’t actually be revisiting the conversation we had over a week ago.

He says it again.

“You’re the ten.”

It doesn’t mean what it sounds like. How could it?

A knot in my throat now, huge and aching.

I swallow at it as he goes on, his gaze trailing back up.

“Your ex called his new girl a goddess twice when I spoke to him today, and I couldn’t have disagreed more. She’s not as beautiful to me as you are. And that’s been reminding me of the other day when you and I were talking about her, and you said you saw the way I looked at her on the first day he brought her to Lucent—you saw how I looked at her and then how I looked at you. Like you thought I was comparing you to her.”

The ache spreads up to my eyes, down into my chest—the threat of taken-aback tears, embarrassed tears, sad tears because I remember thinking that exact thing. She was a work of art, and he was looking at me and noting how I wasn’t one.

But here and now, he’s shaking his head, meeting my eyes again with a serious and steady expression.

“When I told you she’s a seven to me, you asked if a ten even exists. I just want you to know it does and I’m looking at it.”

At me.

He’s looking at me.

He crosses his arms over his chest, undoubtedly cold even though the building blur in my vision doesn’t hide that his cheeks have colored.

“I wasn’t comparing you to her that day at work. I was comparing her to you.”

With that, he turns and walks out of my sight.

I’m left here with his words ricocheting in my head.

He…he did mean what it sounded like.

It takes me several seconds to be able to move enough to step forwards and look around the doorframe. As I watch him call the elevator down the hall, I know I should find the voice to thank him even from here, but, ‘Thank you,’ seems so small, so lacking—it doesn’t touch what I feel right now.

I could run after him. I could hurry down the hall and hug him or….

He boards the elevator.

Go. Magnolia, do it. Go after him.

But I don’t, so he leaves.

I blink and blink at where he was. Then, utterly overwhelmed, I step back and lock myself into the apartment.

I’m not sure how long I stand here and replay what he said, how he looked.

Eventually, I shuffle away to my room, some part of my brain remembering that I need dry clothes. Once I’m there, I head for my dresser…but my eyes snag on my full-length mirror. I go to it, then look at my reflection.

In a rush of breath-stealing sharpness, the tears hit me in earnest.

My ponytail is limp because it’s wet, my bangs stringy. My bit of mascara and eyeliner is smudged. There are speckles of dried dirt splashed up the shins of my black hose. And beneath my dress is a body that’s thicker than it used to be, leaving me feeling self-conscious and heavy and like I’ve failed myself somehow.

But to Luke, I’m….

I fold down onto the floor so I can cry quietly for a minute.

I can’t get a grip on my emotions.

His honesty makes my heart smile, and my harshness towards myself makes it hurt.

Remembering his mentions of Marcus and the new girlfriend makes my cheeks burn, and remembering the news of him calling my ex a jackass makes me giggle through my hushed sobs.

He defended me. I still don’t quite know how he did it or what exactly provoked him, but he had my back.

To Marcus and to me.

The knowledge warms me through even as it makes me cry more.

It’s not easy to feel confident or beautiful when change and expectations and society all build up in so many ways and leave me—and other people, men and women alike—feeling inferior. Inadequate.

But I wipe at my eyes and look into the mirror again, and Luke’s words make themselves at home in my head…those words I wasn’t expecting because I was afraid he was dwelling on what sixteen-year-old me did….

I like them better than the ones that have been dampening my self-confidence.

I wanna hold on to them.

The thought settles on me until it becomes more of a resolution.

I’m not sure when my internal criticisms of myself will come slinking back to the spotlight, but at least for tonight, they’re being tucked away among the other shadowy things I don’t care to focus on.

Noise from the other room reminds me that I need to check on Joy after her apparently failed blind date.

After another minute, I feel ready to do that. Feel like I’m done with the tears.

I get to my feet again so I can clean up.

While I change into my pajamas, the weirdest sensation takes over my hands. It’s like a restlessness—a feeling of loneliness, kind of. I find myself thinking that touching Luke one last time wasn’t merely something I could’ve done to show thanks, it was something I should’ve done, something my body needed to do. I wish I’d followed through with the urge.

Picturing how he might’ve touched me back sends a sprinkling of tingles down my spine, because one thing is for sure: if he really did have shadowy things in his own mind like I feared, they weren’t taking up as much space as appreciative things were.

The sensation grows so strong in my hands that I have to rub them over my hips to try to scrub it away.

But it just makes me picture them being his hands instead, which brings the spine tingles back…and, weirdly again, makes me realize I wish I had some gummy worms.