“Are you?” I ask. I expect him to balk at that, the fact that I’m second-guessing him. He’s such a manly man, I don’t blame him for taking offense.
But he just sighs. “Yeah. Right now, I’m okay. I’ll feel better when we get those dogs. And tomorrow, who knows. I take it one day at a time. That’s all you can do.”
What happened to you, I want to ask. What made you this way?
Can I fix it?
“Are you okay?” he asks me.
“Me? Yeah.”
“About the article and everything?”
I sigh and lean back against the tree. I fight the urge to run my hands up and down my arms to keep warm. But even without me saying anything, Lachlan puts his arm around me.
“Are you cold?” he asks softly, his breath sweet on my cheek, his grip strong.
“Yes,” I admit. I match his voice, afraid to break the spell. “And no, I’m not okay about the article. Not at all.”
I launch into a long, rambling confession about my dashed hopes and dreams, laying out the nitty gritty with absolutely no fear of being judged or second-guessed. It’s refreshing.
When I’m done speaking, Lachlan doesn’t say anything. He’s still holding me close. I turn into him slightly, inhaling his peppery, woodsy smell, and gingerly place my hand on his stomach, sliding it along his waist until I’m holding onto him. His abs are hard, rigid, and well-earned. I bite my lip in want.
“So why don’t you get another job?” he asks gently. “Go for what you really want? There’s no use wasting your days doing something that doesn’t excite you. You only get one life. Well, two lives. The second one starts the moment you realize you only have one.”
I look up at him. He’s staring off into the distance. “Where did you hear that one?”
He smiles briefly, his eyes twinkling. “I think I saw it scribbled on a bathroom door. People are philosophical when they’re taking a shit.”
I laugh. “True.”
“So, why don’t you?” he asks again.
“You’re persistent,” I tell him, my fingers gripping the soft fabric of his shirt.
“It’s only fair,” he says. “You got to ask me all the questions earlier. Now I can turn the tables. I want to know more about you.” He says the lasts word like they mean everything.
My heart skips, warm, bubbly. “Okay,” I say slowly. “Well, the truth is, I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I’ll give up something steady and loyal and normal, and trade it in for something I’ll fail at. You know?”
He nods. “I know. But if you don’t try…can you imagine spending the rest of your life never having that passion? That pull? Never feeling if who you are and what you offer will ever be used the way it should be? You have talent, there’s no doubt. And if you believe it and never share it with the world…well what a bloody shame that would be.”
He’s got this uncanny knack of just reaching inside and knowing what I’m feeling and thinking. As if I don’t think about that all the time. The regret that lies ahead of me if I keep going on as I am. One foot in front of the other, never looking up, never looking for a better way.
“But it’s not that simple,” I tell him, holding his shirt tighter.
“Is it ever simple?”
“No,” I say. “It’s just that…I don’t want my mother to worry about me.”