“That I’m always right?” I retort, teasing him because I’m afraid what I’ll expose of myself. “I’m glad you’re finally admitting it.”
“You have a gift for deliberately misunderstanding me.” His expression is fond and a bit tender as he reaches out and touches the tip of my nose. “I won’t try again,” he whispers roughly. “Ever.”
A lump gathers in my throat. “I ask if you’re okay because I care. But you don’t have to reassure me. Or please anyone. You did nothing wrong, John.”
He lets out a hard breath, and my fingers find his. Without hesitation, he turns his hand palm up and threads his fingers with mine. His thumb strokes a slow circle over the backs of our knuckles.
My voice is a ghost between us. “You want to know why I came looking for you?”
His focus intensifies. “Tell me.”
He’s still gently exploring my hand, the smooth skin along the back of it, the sensitive edges of my wrist, and between my knuckles. I feel fragile just then, like he might break me with one harsh touch or if he lets go.
I don’t look away. “I missed you.”
His fingers convulse on a squeeze. “I missed you too, Button. I just …” He shakes his head. “Don’t know why I didn’t respond, honestly.”
But I think I do. Because when I’m low, I don’t want to be the one seeking out company. I want someone to find me, to tell me I’m wanted, needed. And when I don’t get that, I sink lower. Maybe John is different in that regard, but somehow, I doubt it.
I swallow hard. “I thought … I had this feeling that the world might be getting a little too dark, too heavy for you right now. That you might have needed a hug.”
My confession seems to wash over him, and he flinches, closing his eyes like he’s considering turning away. I want so badly to clasp his hand hard and hold on tight. But I don’t. It isn’t my decision to make.
His eyes are over-bright when he opens them and looks at me. The pain in them takes my breath.
“I do,” he rasps. “I need …”
I open my arms to him. Shaking, he leans into me, his head resting on the slope of my breast, his arm wrapping low around my waist and tugging me against him. Our legs tangle as we move to get closer. John sighs, his body melding into mine. And I run my hands through his hair, making nonsensical noises under my breath.
“Fuck, Stella … It hurts, and I don’t know how …” His body clenches as if he’s mentally willing himself to keep it together.
“I know, honey.” I stroke the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. Tight muscles feel like steel under the silk of his skin.
He swallows audibly. “It comes and goes. I’m on top of the world, then suddenly I’m not.” The warmth of his breath gusts over my breasts. “My therapist warned me. She said it’s an endurance race. You endure. You keep moving forward. But some days, Stella … Some days I get so fucking tired.”
“Then rest,” I whisper. “Rest with me. Let me be where you lay your head for a while.”
He stills, his cheek pressed against my chest. “I don’t want your pity.”
No, he wants reassurance. I get that. “You don’t have my pity. It’s what you do for the people you care about.”
I wish I had better words for him, a better way to comfort, but he is the poet, not me. I can only hold him and hope it helps.
The stiffness in his body eases but he remains completely still. “You care?”
“Of course I do.” A blush runs over my cheeks. We’ve been at each other’s throats for so long, talk of feelings is awkward. “I’d like to think we’re friends now, aren’t we?”
“Friends,” he repeats under his breath. But when I twitch, completely embarrassed by his lack of enthusiasm, he holds me fast. “We’re friends, Stella. We’ve always been, even when you didn’t realize it.”
There’s no missing the rebuke in his tone; it only makes me smile. “Okay then.”
“Okay,” he agrees.
We fall into a tentative silence. I play with his hair, running my fingers through it, and he slowly relaxes against me. The knowledge that I helped him feel even a little better is gratifying. But I can’t stop thinking about the state I found him in. “John?”
“Hmm?” He’s loose-limbed and warm now.
I hate that I might ruin that, but I have to ask the question. “It’s Tuesday.” Instantly, he tenses. Guilt pricks at my neck. I keep stroking his hair, fearing he’ll withdraw. “You see Dr. Allen on Tuesdays, don’t you?”
John tucks his head further into the crook of my shoulder. “I forgot.”
“John—”
“I swear I did,” he says, stronger now. His long fingers curl around the curve of my hip and hold tight. “I know it sounds like utter bullshit, but I forget things. Especially when I get low.”