Fanning The Flame

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

ELISA

An hour later, I’m leaning my head against the back of the sofa in Dr. Williams’s comfortable therapy room—a place more home to me than my apartment. I count the holes in the soft acoustic tile while the fresh scent of the diffuser washes over me.

“You look pensive,” she says.

I straighten, regarding her dark, welcoming face and warm brown eyes, and note the amused half-smile on her full lips.

“Do you think it’s too soon for me to consider dating someone?”

She blinks. “I didn’t expect that. First time you’ve managed to surprise me.”

I grin. “Guess you’re not psychic after all.”

“Never said I was. So, since I can’t read your mind, how about you tell me what you’re thinking? It will make a difference whether you’re lonely and seeking companionship or whether you have someone in mind.”

“Why does that matter?” I poke the buttons sewn onto a sofa pillow so I don’t have to look into her face, but I can feel my cheeks burning.

“Well, if you’re just lonely, after all you’ve been through, you might put out desperation vibes. The last thing you need is to attract another predator, and the risk is high. It’s very common to replace one abuser with another, just because it feels familiar.”

“Nothing about Luke feels familiar,” I mutter.

“What was that? Sounds like you do have someone in mind.”

I look up, and now my whole face feels hot. “Yeah. I ran into an old friend today. He… asked me out. I’m wondering if it’s a good idea.”

“Hmmm. What do you think about it? First of all, do you have any interest in dating?”

I shrug. “I never really thought about it. Not since the fire. I’ve been too busy just surviving.”

She nods.

“But…”

“But?”

I close my eyes. “But before—just before—it was starting to dawn on me that I really liked this guy. He’s… he’s friendly. Funny. Kind. I mean, he came to the trial. He wasn’t even a witness, just showed up out of the goodness of his heart, and after… He asked me out then. He visited me in the hospital.” I draw in a deep breath to counter my babbling gush. “He’s the best damn kisser ever.”

I peek at Dr. Williams, and her dark eyebrows have risen nearly to her hairline. “He kissed you?”

I nod. “I told him I wasn’t ready, that I had too much healing to do, and that was before I was kidnapped and nearly burned to death. I feel even more broken than I did the first time I turned him down.”

“But?”

She’s too damn good at this. “He’s so sweet. I don’t want to risk hurting him, but…”

“But you would like to date him?”

I nod.

“Well, you say he was at your trial and visited you in the hospital after… after the fire. I guess if he was gonna be scared off by your trauma, he would have realized it. How long has it been since you talked to him?”

“About a year. I tried to explain why, but I think I hurt his feelings.”

This time, the doctor quirks one eyebrow. “Be careful, Elisa. His feelings about what you needed in order to survive a terrible trauma are not yours to carry. He's allowed to be sad and to miss you, but he must not make you soothe that for him, and you should not ask it of yourself.”

I lean my elbows on my knees and scan the pale green wallpaper behind the doctor. The tasteful art and diplomas hanging on the walls. “I don’t know how not to.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” she says, her voice soothing. “Your mother was quite histrionic, wasn’t she? Everything was your fault, and she’d be very dramatic about it?”

I nod.

“And your husband was the same. Do you think this gentleman would have liked you to rise from your sickbed so you could soothe his feeling of disappointment?”

I tried to imagine Luke sulking like that, and it made about as much sense as me dating him while I was still married to a⁠—

My mind veers away, still unsure whether what I thought I saw the night Alex died and almost took me with him was a hallucination or something much worse. “I don’t think Luke would have wanted that at all, but it’s hard for me to see someone upset and not do something about it.”

“I know, hon, but if you don’t want to fall into old habits, you’re going to have to sit with that discomfort. You can’t take on any pain he felt on your behalf in the last year. It was never your job to do that for him.”

“Sounds like I’m still in the wrong headspace then?” I can’t help feeling both relieved and disappointed.

“I didn’t say that.” She sits back in her desk chair. “You are the only one who can decide if you’re ready. I mean, you’re not moving in with the guy, just grabbing a coffee, right? And he’s a friend you’ve known for a while. If you don’t want to, then don’t. But if you want to see if there’s anything between you, and you feel up to having coffee with a friend you work with—who’s a damn good kisser—there’s nothing morally wrong with accepting the invitation. What’s that look?”

I touch my face, not even sure what I’m doing. “I don’t know. I feel strange.”

“Describe the feeling.”

“Um, my stomach is jumping.”

“Like you’re gonna puke or like excitement?”

I analyze the sensation. “Kinda both.”

“Ah. Sounds like infatuation. Well, Elisa, I’m not going to give you permission to date or forbid it. You have to decide and own your decision.”

“I wish someone would tell me what the right answer is.”

“No, you don’t.” She challenges me with a brown-eyed stare. “You hated being controlled. The trade-off is that you have to decide. If you like this guy… what’s his name?”

“Luke.” I swear I didn’t mean for that to sound like a sigh, but it did.

“So, now you have to decide if kissing Luke again is worth facing that you must navigate a relationship while managing your mental health.”

He’s worth anything. The thought takes my breath away. “It won’t set me back, will it?”

“What, going out with Luke? Hard to say. It’s good to be a little vulnerable and make connections with a trustworthy person. But you have to be strong enough to recognize any red flags. Be willing to end the relationship if it’s not working for you. Even if he’s a really great person.”

I sigh. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Good-hearted people never want to cause hurt,” she reminds me, “but you matter, too—your feelings, your needs. If he’s a good man, he will want you to do what’s best for you, even if he’s disappointed.”

I hang my head.

“Oh, and, Elisa?”

I lift my eyes.

“There’s nothing to say that being partnered with a loving man who respects you would require you to end anything. The difference between a promising start and loving commitment between two people with good hearts and intentions is only time and a certain willingness to confront and resolve issues in a healthy way—because everyone has some.”

I pause. Love. I’ve never thought such a thing would be possible for me. My husband was a world-class asshole, but I was divorcing him when he died. My mother—my puppet master—she’s dead, too. There’s no one left to stop me from experiencing a good relationship, even love. Wow.

Unsure what to do with this, I rise, absently thank Dr. Williams, and drift rather than walk past her assistant, Barbara, to my car.

The drive home through heavy traffic passes in a blink, and I find myself at an unassuming complex, where I park in my designated space, punch the code into the keypad on the door and enter my building. One brief elevator ride later, I’m in a space filled with… not much. In a year of living, half of it severely injured, I didn’t take the time to purchase clutter. The squishy brown sofa is all I need for comfort. A dining table and chair double as a work desk. The laptop issued by my workplace sits next to an empty coffee cup and a plate with toast crumbs on it.

A small painting I purchased at a student art show hangs above the table. I’m not sure what it’s supposed to be, but the cool blue and green shades soothe me. It reminds me of water, something sorely lacking in the desert.

Frowning at how messy I’ve become in the absence of my husband’s endless criticism, I toss my purse on the sofa, gather my breakfast dishes and carry them to the kitchen. I drop them in the sink—I rarely use enough to load and run the dishwasher—and open the refrigerator, extracting a can of sparkling water.

Carrying my drink to the sofa, I flop down and tip my head back, looking up at the ceiling. Sparkly popcorn is not my favorite, but with everything else about this place—from the location to the price to the size and even the layout—being exactly what I wanted, it was a compromise worth making.

“It’s probably time to start decorating.” I make note of what seems like it’s missing. An end table with a funky lamp and maybe a vase of silk flowers or a small potted plant. More paintings to hang on the walls—big ones. Curtains for the windows that overlook downtown. A flowered, feminine spread for my bed. More bookshelves.

“Why am I wasting my time with these mundane thoughts?” I ask myself aloud, even though I know the answer. Ruminating about the exact way Luke’s hands feel in mine. The precise sensation of his lips… would not help me make a wise decision.

“Well, then, Elisa, what do you want?”

I know this, too. I want to kiss Luke. I want it a lot. But I also want not to be afraid, and that’s harder.

I rise and dither through the room, fluffing the cushions on the sofa, opening the dishwasher, seeing it empty and closing it again, straightening the painting that is not crooked. Anything to avoid making a decision.

“I don’t know what I want.”

Yes, you do, a sly voice whispers in my mind. You want that man’s lovely warm hands all over you.

Strange thought. I’ve always been sort of neutral about s*x… s****l things… even simple touches like a hug.

Except that when Luke kissed you, he set off a reaction you’re wild to feel again. One you felt an echo of today when he held your hand.

This concerns me even more. Surely I wouldn’t use a supportive friend for physical things, right? I’m not that kind of beast.

I return to the sofa and flop down, staring at the ceiling again. “Remember he instigated the kiss last year and today he wasn’t in a hurry to let go of you, either. People who genuinely like each other often touch. Wanting physical contact isn’t automatically a bad thing.”

I inhale and exhale slowly as the only possible answer forms in my mind. “I need to know what this could be.”

Anxiety tightens my stomach, but I can’t let it make decisions for me.

“Only way out is through.” I grab my purse and dig out my phone, scrolling through my contacts—all five of them, with the other four being work, Dr. Williams, the physical therapist, and my doctor—and push the button.

My heart starts hammering as I wait for the call to connect. Maybe it won’t. Maybe I can leave a message…

“Hello?”

Damn it, his voice is nice. I want to wrap myself up in it. Infatuation is so distracting. I don’t want to be infatuated, do I?

“Um, Luke. Hi. It’s Elisa. You asked me to call you?”

“Oh, hey. Good to hear from you. How are you doing?”

Nervous. Excited. Nauseous. “Fine. How about you?”

His voice drops to a low rumble. “I’m… surprised. And happy. I wasn’t sure if you would be ready to… talk so quickly.”

“Well, I guess I am. I hope you realize, Luke, that I missed you, too. I didn’t disappear because I was upset with you. I just needed to get away from everyone so I could do the messiest part of my healing without an audience.”

“Oh, I understand that. I get the need for space sometimes, even when things aren’t going totally to s**t. Only, if you need some time to yourself, could you please tell me so I know what’s going on?”

“Of course! So, um, Luke…”

“Yes?”

I wish for an old-fashioned phone with a curly cord so I can wrap it around my finger as I hem and haw. “I just wondered… do you still want to get together?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“I thought so. Um, in what way?” Without the cord option, the best I can do is trail my fingers over the soft brown velour of my sofa.

“Uhhh…”

My face heats. “What I mean is, do you want to get together as work chums and catch up?”

“Yes, Elisa. I do want that.”

I hear it—the uncertainty in his tone that tells me he’s holding back so as not to be pushy.

“Well, that would be fine, but…”

“But?”

“But I had to wonder… did you mean that, or did you want a date?” I push the words out fast, not giving them a chance to get stuck.

“Oh, wow.” Luke swallows so hard I can hear it over the phone. He sighs and the wind crackles through to my ear.

I wonder what it would be like to feel Luke’s breath against my ear. Tingles run up into my hairline and my fingers feel like they’re swelling.

My fingers. Are swelling. The fingers I shouldn’t have. It’s great that I can feel them, but sometimes, I’m hyperaware of every sensation in them. I’m looking look at them, not sure if they’re doing anything, when Luke speaks again.

“If you’re open to a date, Elisa, that would be my preference.”

A strange sensation shoots through my stomach, even as my mouth blurts. “Great!”

I mean, I’m not lying. It is great. And terrifying. I shouldn’t be doing this.

“What would you like to do? And when?”

The question, so simple in theory, shuts off my brain altogether. “Umm, what?”

“Elisa?” I can hear the concern in Luke’s voice, but I don’t know how to process the question, let alone answer it.

“Uh, I don’t know. Do you have any ideas?” Damn it. I’ve stopped functioning, like an automaton with broken gears.

“Well, we could grab a cup of coffee or some brunch this weekend. Take in a matinée.”

It’s Monday. The weekend is a long way off.

Disappointment wars with relief again, but I can feel something rising. “Dinner? Tonight?”

Once the words sneak past my lips, a whole mess of blabber follows. “I normally cook, but for some reason, the day I get groceries I’m always so tired, and I just want to let someone else do all the chopping and stirring and washing the dishes and…” I don’t know what I’m saying anymore, and it’s making me nervous.

“I get it. Let’s not forget you’re still recovering. If shopping tires you out, don’t cook. Let’s get dinner. What do you like to eat?”

Another simple question with no answer. What do I like to eat? This is starting to make me feel like a weirdo. Of course, I haven’t dated in forever. Not since I was a teen, really. A lot has changed since then.

Luke chuckles, clearly not understanding that I’m having an existential crisis over what to eat for dinner. “Typical, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” I’ve got no idea how to take that.

“I mean,” he clarifies, “that trying to get someone else to choose what to eat for dinner is the eternal couple’s argument.”

He said couple. We’re not a couple, but he’d like to see us that way. Would I? I try to picture it. Fail. My most recent relationship wasn’t too couple-y, and I don’t know what to do.

I switch on my teacher face in hopes of sounding confident. “Um, so, Luke, literally no one has ever asked me what I want to eat. The only people who took me to restaurants were my mother and Alex. And they told me where to go… and ordered for me.”

Luke grunts. “Sorry. I didn’t think of that. Okay, let’s try this a different way. What would you eat if you were alone right now?”

“A sandwich.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Yep.” I poke into the upholstery. It feels like my fingers are swelling again, but this time, I recognize the anxiety. I’m messing this up. Badly. Letting my head fall back onto the squishy fabric, I look at the ceiling, counting the peaks and valleys in the dusty popcorn and waiting to see if anything bubbles up. God, I could use a drink. Some drinks. Sweet, to counter the exhaustion. Sharp. Sour. “Know what is something I’ve always wanted to do but never tried?”

“What’s that?”

He still sounds interested. Invested. Tension flows from my shoulders. Guess I want to go out with Luke more than I want to be afraid. That’s an important thing to know. “I love tacos. Who doesn’t, right? But they never wanted me to eat any. Too fattening. Can we go out for tacos and margaritas?”

“That sounds like a lot of fun.”

“I promise not to talk about Mother and Alex too much.”

“It’s okay if you do,” he says solemnly. “This is a recent and traumatic experience for you. I want—I hope to be—someone you can trust, even with the things the rules of polite conversation forbid.”

He’s straightforward. I like that. “I suppose I’ll be very boring until I get it all out of my system. I mean, therapy is great, and my therapist is my hero, but…”

“But a friend is a different kind of need?”

“Yes, exactly! I… I’d be glad to have you for a friend, Luke.”

“You do.”

Well, that says it all.

“Thank you for telling me what you want, Elisa. That means a lot. May I pick you up?”

I recoil immediately. “Um, not yet. How about we meet at the restaurant instead.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t even sound disappointed. “Since you’ve done such a good job choosing the theme for our evening, should I choose the place? Would the Agave Grill suit you?”

That’s where he kissed me before my trial by fire. “Okay. Good idea.”

“One hour?”

Oh, boy. How much can I get done in an hour? I have no makeup on. My hair is in a sloppy ponytail. I’m wearing torn jeans and a tank top. s**t. “Okay. See you then. Bye.”

“Goodbye.” The phone disconnects, leaving me alone with my thoughts. And the overwhelming one is that I don’t want Luke to be disappointed.

What does someone wear to eat tacos and drink margaritas? I have no idea.

I race to the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, I drag out every product I own, pondering what would look best to this man I know as a colleague and a friend, but who’s interested in more.

Running warm water into the white faux-marble sink, I ponder my options. Primer. I hate primer. Do I need it? But if I don’t use it, what will happen?

Nothing I want to know about today.

I splash water on my face, release my hair from its confinement and moisten the scraggly wisps. I have a huge bump from the hair tie. Damn. Back up it goes but with more care this time.

Then, hair sorted decently if not fancily, I turn my attention to my makeup.

Makeup hates me.