New Point (12 page)

The insult rolls right off Jake’s shoulders as he chuckles. “I’m not the one who blew off the little lady with a bout of jealousy. Besides, Tess wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if she ever found out I was rude to one of your girlfriends.”

Girlfriend?
We haven’t gotten that far, but I’d be lying if I said the relationship status didn’t make my stomach go all warm and gooey.

“She hasn’t agreed to be my girlfriend. Yet,” Miles throws over his shoulder when he walks through a door behind the bar. It’s loud enough for several of the other bar patrons to eye me curiously. Again, my cheeks tingle with heat.

“You’re not engaged to another guy, then?” Jake’s lost some of his friendliness.

“No, of course not!” I wave my right hand at him, displaying the ring. “It’s my mother’s ring.”

Jake’s expression softens, and his stance relaxes as he seemingly understands what I’m telling him. “I’m sorry for you loss. You understand I’m watching out for my friend, though. He looks at you like you hold the keys to heaven, and I don’t want to see him get hurt again.”

Again?
Somehow I know that comment has to do with Lacey. I nod rapidly. “You’re a good friend, Jake.”

“That’s debatable,” Miles says as when he reappears from the door behind the bar. He claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “What’s he bothering you with now?”

“Nothing interesting.” Jake shrugs off Miles. “What are you two eating?” He lays a menu in front of me, effectively ending our conversation.

Once we’ve ordered, Jake wanders down the length of the bar to attend to other customers.

“What did he say to you?” Miles watches me protectively.

“Really, it was nothing.”

He captures my chin in his hand and gently lifts my face. “Tell me,” he insists.

With those deep eyes boring into me, there’s no way I can deny him what he asks. “Jake doesn’t want to see you get hurt.” My voice is a little breathless. Am I a sucker for brown irises or what?

“Someone as sweet as you couldn’t hurt a fly.”

My lips twist toward a smile. “Sweet is what you call Alexa or Duke.”

Not caring that we’re in a bar he owns, or that anyone from town can see the sign of affection, Miles leans toward me and nuzzles my neck. Reflexively, I tilt toward his touch. I let out a soft sigh of appreciation when his lips brush against the spot in front of my ear. “That’s all sweetness,” he murmurs. “You’re intoxicating.”

Shivers run down my shoulders, and I reluctantly retreat backward.
Slow,
I remind myself. Miles smiles unashamedly as if to say,
I can’t help myself.

“What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever been given?” I blurt out to steer our conversation toward less sensually charged topics.

When he answers, it’s smooth and confident, like he’s been asked the question a million times and knows the answer by memory. “‘Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.’”

“You’ve read
Self Reliance
?” It’s an essay I read repeatedly over the past nine months. The words are practically tattooed in my brain. In fact, I thought about making several of them permanent on my body, one being the quote Miles just recited.

“Does it surprise you so much I’m a fan of Emerson?” He smiles crookedly.

Can I ever stop blushing around this guy? “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just surprised because it’s a favorite of mine. Why is it meaningful to you?”

He gestures to the bar around us. “My sister recommended I read it when I was building this place. There were times when I doubted I could finish the project. Times when I questioned my vision for the bar. Then I read Emerson a few dozen times and that line resonated with me. I had to trust myself to make the right decisions. Go with my gut, and I’ll go the right way.”

“Do you find it strange that it’s one of my favorite lines from the essay too?”

Miles lifts a hand to cup my cheek, stroking my skin with the pad of his rough thumb. “Not at all. I trust myself that asking you out was the best decision I’ve ever made.”

Oh, hell, I’m blushing again. But he doesn’t seem to mind. No, his big browns are full of tenderness.

T
he eye of a rowdy thunderstorm hits New Point Friday night. For most people, this would be a non-event. In the aftermath of my confrontation with Clinton Smith, those days of ignoring the boom and brass of a storm are over. Thunderstorms terrify me.

As I lay in bed, the storm swirling around violently outside, I try to push the fear away, focusing on the past few days.

Since our date Monday night I’ve seen Miles every day, even if just for a few minutes when he stopped by the library to say hello on his way to the bar. Either Etta didn’t tell him about our disastrous therapy encounter or he doesn’t care, because he hasn’t mentioned it – and we had dinner at his bar again last night.

Aside from a couple on the cheek, there haven’t been any other kisses since our first one that night on the beach. As much as I want to continue the physical aspect of our relationship, I’m relieved he’s not pressuring me.

We’re in the blissful beginning stages of a relationship. There hasn’t been a reason to discuss my parents or the need to dance around what happened at Clarkes because we’re still getting to know each other.

What’s your favorite food?
He’s a steak man.

Where do you want to travel?
Anywhere he can try new beer or spend time outdoors.

Where did you go to college?
Funny, Miles went to the same massive state school as Blake and I, even played on the same football team as my brother. Because of our age difference, we missed each other there.

We went back and forth, peppering each other with questions. I couldn’t get enough of his easy smile or attentiveness. Last night when he brought me home from dinner, he waited patiently on the deck, watching me until the door was closed and the lock clicked in place.

Those seconds when he stared at me from behind the closed glass door I thought I’d burst into one feverish mess of desire. His behavior was so gentlemanly, I almost didn’t believe it. No guy had ever waited to make sure I was home safely after a date. But he’s real, and he’s pursuing me.

I MISS YOU ALREADY

I found the message scrawled in the sand after work today. My lips stretched so far across my cheeks I thought my skin would crack when I saw it. Miles left this morning to chaperone Duke’s baseball team camping trip for the next two days.

Could this guy be more perfect?

Seriously.

He’s the fisherman, reeling me in, and there’s not an ounce of fight in me.

Now several hours after I found his message, I lay under a heap of duvet and bedding, watching bursts of lightning zigzag across the night sky. Moments later the deep rumble of thunder sends a chill down my spine. What is it about the storm that sends me spiraling toward a panic attack? The loud noises remind me of Clinton slamming his gun down on the countertop next to me. The flashes of bright white light remind me of his penetrating gaze. The inky darkness overpowers my senses, sending me into a vacuum of unpleasant memories.

Underneath my grip, the sheets crumble in my hand. I screw my eyes shut.
If I open my eyes, I’ll see him. He’s the companion I can’t shake, the unwanted suitor who won’t take a hint. Leave. Me. Alone.

The memories are relentless. For a breath, I’m back at Clarkes Elementary School.

“Cook County nine-one-one, what’s the location of your emergency?”

Bump, bump, bump. Instead of responding in that half second, my thoughts focus on the erratic thump coming from my chest. My heart thuds so loudly I’m certain the man with the too-close-together eyes can make out the sounds as easily as I can.

“Cook County nine-one-one, what’s the location of your emergency?” the operator repeats more urgent this time.

At the operator’s instance, I snap out of the terror-filled trance and spring into action.

“Clarkes Elementary School on Belmont, there’s a young man here with a gun.”

Blinking the memory away, I exhale choppy breathes in a fruitless effort to release some tension. My stomach is tight with anxiety; pins and needles prickle my fingertips with my unsteady breathing.

Clam down, Zoe,
I order myself. Finally, finally, finally I’m able to get a grip.

I don’t want to be this person anymore, the woman hiding beneath the covers while a relentless rainstorm showers outside. What kind of future will I have this way? How can I manage to maintain a functioning relationship? How can I raise children this way? I want to be a mother who protects her kids from storms, not one hiding underneath the covers next to them.

Hunkering down further into the bed, I wish the storm away. No amount of wishing dampens the prickles of anxiety twitching across my body.

Several hours later when the sun peers out from behind fluffy white clouds, I haven’t slept a minute. I stumble down to the kitchen, my body shaking with exhaustion. I know I can’t put my therapy off any longer. Even on the chance it harms my relationship with Miles, I need guidance from a professional. I grab my phone off the counter and dial the hand-written number on the back of a business card.

“Hello?” She doesn’t recognize my number, but her answer is self-assured. Obviously I’m calling her personal cell phone. Most psychologists don’t give out their private line to patients.

“Et–Dr. Wilson, this is Zoe Baker.” I hate how my voice trembles with uncertainty. “I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday morning.”

“It’s not a problem,” she says gently.

That gentleness nearly undoes my fragile hold on my emotions. I gulp a breath. “I’d like to schedule an appointment with you as soon as your schedule allows.”

“I can meet you at my office in an hour.”

“Really–are you sure? I don’t want to trouble you on a Saturday.”

“Normally I don’t take appointments on the weekend, but it sounds like an exception is in order. And I did tell you to call at any time.”

Exception.
I’d become an exception to all the rules nine months ago. After a lifetime of fading to the background, suddenly I stood out because people need to make
exceptions
on my behalf. Doctors taking appointments at odd hours so I could avoid interactions with the public, restaurant staff signing anonymity waivers so I could eat peacefully with my brother. Sometimes I want to scream, ‘I don’t deserve to be an exception.’

I want to be normal.

“Zoe?” Etta reminds me that our conversation isn’t over.

As much as I want to tell her it can wait until her regular business hours, I know I won’t sleep a wink the rest of the weekend without a productive way to release the stress. “See you in an hour.”

“Great.”

Then, almost shamefully, I add, “Thank you, Etta.”

“Don’t say that until you’ve seen me.” Her voice has a smile behind it.

“
T
he last time you were in this office, you were adamant that you didn’t want to continue treatment with me. What’s changed?” Etta’s question is pointed, but she wears a patient, understanding expression.

“Thunderstorms are a trigger of mine.” I fit my fingers together primly on my lap, forcing them still.

Etta’s sitting in a black leather chair with walnut trim. She’s not dressed in professional garb, just a sleeveless chambray dress. Her relaxed outfit makes me comfortable. Instead of looking like a doctor, she’s more like a peer. However, Etta’s got the standard notebook in her lap, casually jotting notes as we speak, even though her eyes are trained on mine.

“Dr. Green warned me I wasn’t finished. I don’t know why I thought I could handle this on my own.” I fix my gaze on her notebook, watching her pen scratch against the paper.

“What do you want to accomplish by meeting with me?”

The response explodes from my chest instantly. “I want to be normal again. Thunderstorms don’t send normal people into a spiral of fear. An unexpected tap on the shoulder doesn’t send a normal person’s heart into marathon mode. I want to leave it all behind and…” I realize I’m breathing heavily, shoulders rising and falling with the effort.

She waits patiently for me to continue, warm brown eyes never straying from me.

“You know I’ve started dating Miles. I don’t want all this,” I wave my hand helplessly at the office, “to keep me from starting a relationship with him.”

“Have you considered telling him about your past?”

I can’t keep the horror out of my instant reaction. “No! He doesn’t need to know about what brought me to New Point. You asked what’s changed. Miles. He’s changed everything for me. When I’m with him, I not
that girl
anymore. With Miles, I can remember who I used to be
before
. I don’t know what will come of us dating, but I do know I can’t have a healthy relationship with anyone until I get over the past.”

A hint of a concern flickers, but then she relaxes her expression. “As we discussed last time, you are aware that I will, under no circumstances, discuss our sessions with Miles. But my approach to your progress will encourage you to share your past with him. Or whomever else you intend on dating.”