my insides collapsed and expanded in rushes of opposite emotion, like an umbrella opening and closing inside me.
He smiled. “You like it?”
I nodded. I knew I should say something. A thank-you, at least, but I was afraid. My hands shook as I held the book and the pens and felt the bag brushing against my leg. I should have given it back. As lovely as it was, it was one more thing I would have to hide. I should have said, “Thanks, but no thanks,” but I didn’t. I stood stone silent and hugged it to my chest.
Addison put the truck in gear and threw the parking brake. He opened the passenger door and patted the seat.
“I won’t bite. I promise.”
I climbed in slowly, afraid I might lose my footing and fall away forever.
“Don’t even think of giving it back,” he said. “I don’t want you to feel…”
I looked at him.
“Obligated,” he said, as if he were reading my mind.
I closed my eyes and felt the smooth cover of the book in my hands.
“Think of it as an investment in your future.”
“My future?” I said.
“You’re an artist.”
I laughed. “It’s a stupid comic.”
“Not stupid at all.” He reached across my lap, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a pile of scrap paper. “I went back to the woods this morning to make sure I got everything.” He handed it all to me. There were half-pages of panels, detailed sketches of the Hand. There was even one notebook page titled “The Secret Treasure—What Is It?”
“You read all of these?”
He didn’t have to answer. Of course he had—the book, the pens—he had read every word. He saw something I would have never shared with him or anyone.
“Please …” I said, pleading for what I don’t know.
Addison leaned toward me as if he were going to kiss me and reached his hand across my chest to grab the door handle.
“It sticks if you don’t slam it.” He opened and closed my door as his cheek brushed my shoulder. I flinched.
“I don’t like to be touched,” I blurted before I could censor myself.
“That’s too bad,” he said, as he sat back in his seat. “Touching can be nice.”
We sat in silence for a few moments. I felt that rush of shame again as I tried to stay in the moment, tried to feel the vibration of the motor rumbling under my thighs, the pull of his eyes on me, the smoothness of the sketchbook in my lap, and the sharp edges of my scraps he had rescued in the woods. I tried to stay in the moment, to not escape to someplace in my head where this was not happening and I was safe and alone.
“I wouldn’t have read them if I had known how you felt.”
I hung my head, wishing I could fold into myself and slip into the glove compartment.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of. Your sketches are …”
I bowed my head and began to cry. Addison handed me his yellow bandanna from his back pocket. This time I took it.
“It’s okay,” he said, as he put his hand on top of mine, which were folded in my lap. His palm was dry and warm and covered my fingers like a blanket. We sat like that until the setting sun glowed through the windshield, blinding us. Addison released the parking brake and shifted gears.
He took the long way through town and around the duck pond. In the few weeks he had been with us, spring had announced its arrival with cool days that were slowly wearing away the memory of another harsh Ohio winter. We cracked the windows to get some of the sweet air.
“Tell me about ‘Kat’s Eye,’” he said, as if he were asking me about the weather.
Maybe it was the light or the sketchbook, but I felt a small shift inside me. The memory of his hand lingered, along with a general feeling of unease at being so near him. This was not fear, though I knew the discomfort of that; this was different. Instead of fighting the urge to turn away, I was resisting the desire to slide as close to him as possible.
“Jared shared his comics with me,” I said, my voice sounding queer, like I was
He smiled. “You like it?”
I nodded. I knew I should say something. A thank-you, at least, but I was afraid. My hands shook as I held the book and the pens and felt the bag brushing against my leg. I should have given it back. As lovely as it was, it was one more thing I would have to hide. I should have said, “Thanks, but no thanks,” but I didn’t. I stood stone silent and hugged it to my chest.
Addison put the truck in gear and threw the parking brake. He opened the passenger door and patted the seat.
“I won’t bite. I promise.”
I climbed in slowly, afraid I might lose my footing and fall away forever.
“Don’t even think of giving it back,” he said. “I don’t want you to feel…”
I looked at him.
“Obligated,” he said, as if he were reading my mind.
I closed my eyes and felt the smooth cover of the book in my hands.
“Think of it as an investment in your future.”
“My future?” I said.
“You’re an artist.”
I laughed. “It’s a stupid comic.”
“Not stupid at all.” He reached across my lap, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a pile of scrap paper. “I went back to the woods this morning to make sure I got everything.” He handed it all to me. There were half-pages of panels, detailed sketches of the Hand. There was even one notebook page titled “The Secret Treasure—What Is It?”
“You read all of these?”
He didn’t have to answer. Of course he had—the book, the pens—he had read every word. He saw something I would have never shared with him or anyone.
“Please …” I said, pleading for what I don’t know.
Addison leaned toward me as if he were going to kiss me and reached his hand across my chest to grab the door handle.
“It sticks if you don’t slam it.” He opened and closed my door as his cheek brushed my shoulder. I flinched.
“I don’t like to be touched,” I blurted before I could censor myself.
“That’s too bad,” he said, as he sat back in his seat. “Touching can be nice.”
We sat in silence for a few moments. I felt that rush of shame again as I tried to stay in the moment, tried to feel the vibration of the motor rumbling under my thighs, the pull of his eyes on me, the smoothness of the sketchbook in my lap, and the sharp edges of my scraps he had rescued in the woods. I tried to stay in the moment, to not escape to someplace in my head where this was not happening and I was safe and alone.
“I wouldn’t have read them if I had known how you felt.”
I hung my head, wishing I could fold into myself and slip into the glove compartment.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of. Your sketches are …”
I bowed my head and began to cry. Addison handed me his yellow bandanna from his back pocket. This time I took it.
“It’s okay,” he said, as he put his hand on top of mine, which were folded in my lap. His palm was dry and warm and covered my fingers like a blanket. We sat like that until the setting sun glowed through the windshield, blinding us. Addison released the parking brake and shifted gears.
He took the long way through town and around the duck pond. In the few weeks he had been with us, spring had announced its arrival with cool days that were slowly wearing away the memory of another harsh Ohio winter. We cracked the windows to get some of the sweet air.
“Tell me about ‘Kat’s Eye,’” he said, as if he were asking me about the weather.
Maybe it was the light or the sketchbook, but I felt a small shift inside me. The memory of his hand lingered, along with a general feeling of unease at being so near him. This was not fear, though I knew the discomfort of that; this was different. Instead of fighting the urge to turn away, I was resisting the desire to slide as close to him as possible.
“Jared shared his comics with me,” I said, my voice sounding queer, like I was
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