“Hey,” I said quietly, laying a hand on his arm. I could see that his knuckles were raw. “I’m okay. Are you?”
He turned his head, and when his eyes met mine they were hollow and pale. Haunted. “Let’s get you home,” he said, and he started the car.
5
“Nice flat,” the Professor said as he removed his jacket, unwound the scarf from his neck and draped them both over the arm of my sofa.
It speaks, I thought. Two words, that’s a start.
He’d been painfully quiet during the drive to my place. Granted we’d driven two blocks, parked in my garage and then taken a short set of stairs up to my second-floor apartment. Not a long enough journey for a conversation of any substance really, but his silence had been deafening, his unease palpable. I could see tension rippling through his frame as he paced in my living room.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s small but I like it.” I dropped my coat on a chair and walked to the kitchen.
“Sit. I’m going to make us a light snack,” I said. “And maybe some wine?”
“That would be nice.” He nodded and sat down.
I wondered what exactly was bothering him. Was it tonight’s “excitement” with the belligerent customer? Was it my dancing? Had he been uncomfortable seeing me again at my job, naked for the eyes of other men? Or was it something else? We’d had a lovely time video-chatting before Thanksgiving and he’d said goodbye with promises of speaking to me “later”. Yet I hadn’t heard from him all week. Hell, maybe the answer was c) all of the above. I hoped not.
“You’re in for a treat,” I called to the living room as I rummaged through my refrigerator. “Sasha has me stop at these various gourmet shops on my drive back from my mom’s. I’ve got…”—I turned over cheeses to read the labels— “a fantastic cheddar, and an aged Gruyere, an incredible peach tart and some of the best salami you’ve ever tasted.”
“Sounds lovely,” he called back, a nice sentiment but his tone was flat and distant. I peered around the corner and caught him rubbing at that wrist again. I put the food on a tray and snagged a bottle of Pinot and two glasses from the counter, then walked out to join him.
“That was some pretty fancy maneuvering,” I said, setting the food on the coffee table. I sat on the floor across from him and poured the wine.
“Oh?” He arched a brow.
“I didn’t know that martial arts was part of an advanced degree in English.”
“Right.” He took the wine glass I offered him and sipped. “I wasn’t always an English professor, you know.”
“I figured.” I shaved off the barest slice of peach tart and folded the piece into my mouth. “I’m teasing you,” I said between chews.
“Sorry.” He took a sip of wine, set his glass on the table and sighed, rubbing his palms over his knees.
“You’re…quiet,” I said when I saw his fingers travel to his wrist again. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“You were just assaulted,” he said. “And I beat a man. Does that not warrant a small period of reflection?”
“You did beat a man. And he richly deserved it. I’m okay, thanks to you.” I took a sip of my own wine. “Sadly what happened tonight is something I’ve dealt with before and while I’m really fucking angry at that guy, I’m not exactly fazed. But you are.” I set down my glass and looked up at him. “This isn’t a small period of reflection,” I said. “You’re upset.”
He inhaled sharply and pulled at the cuff of his shirt, trying to cover his wrist.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“Then what’s that?” I asked, gesturing to his hand.
“I bruised my knuckles on that man’s face. They’re just a little raw.”
“Uh-huh.” I was unconvinced. I stood, moved to the couch and sat next to him, took his hand in mine and wove my fingers through his, enclosing his hand between both of mine. His eyes followed my movements, watching my fingers as they played lightly across his knuckles and dangerously close to that dark black band. I traced small circles, slow and easy, waiting for the moment, any second now, when he would remind me of his rule, when he would tell me to stop touching him.
He didn’t speak.
“It’s not bruised knuckles and it’s not nothing,” I said quietly. “I can tell.” As I said it out loud, I knew it to be true. When I had first met this man, I thought I had him all figured out. But then he shifted on me, ran hot and cold, a moody mess of contradictions. He’d had me second guessing myself and I’d determined him unreadable. It wasn’t until this very moment that I realized how wrong I was. I’d known him from the start.
“And how can you tell?” he scoffed.
“You rub your wrist when you’re upset. I’ve noticed it before. You did it this week after you met my mom. You were rubbing your wrist when you spoke of your father, and when you said that you like to think you’re not a liar.”
His eyes lingered on our hands, unfocused.