“What about pelicans?” she asked. “They rebounded from the pesticide pollution of the sixties. Wasn’t that a success story?”
“It was. But now plastic and abandoned fishing line, like the one that got this poor guy, is threatening not only pelicans but dolphins and turtles and all marine life. At some point in a pelican’s life, in Florida, eighty percent will become entangled either in an active line or in discarded line thrown thoughtlessly into the sea.”
Heather was shocked the statistic was so high and couldn’t respond.
They drove for a while in silence, but this time it didn’t feel uncomfortable. Heather leaned back and stretched out her legs. She glanced again at him. He was so handsome. His cheeks bore stubble and she hoped he wasn’t growing a beard. Today she’d seen yet another side of Bo. He never failed to surprise her. His humor, his breadth of knowledge, his endless capacity for kindness. She usually felt very shy with men, but Bo made her feel like she’d known him forever.
Perhaps he kept surprising her, she pondered, because she was limiting him in her mind. Sabotaging him so that she wouldn’t fall in love with him. That was a frustrating part of her mixed-up self-defense system of social avoidance. And yet Bo had persevered. He had become, with no apparent effort or goal, a part of her life. And if she’d learned nothing else the past week, she’d learned that when he was not in it, she was lonely.
Bo had talked about habituation, how at the center they didn’t want raptors to become accustomed to humans so that they would remain wild. By contrast, her therapist had helped Heather work out a plan to habituate herself to her new surroundings. To seek out small challenges that would raise her anxiety levels without triggering a full-scale panic.
For step one of her plan, she’d started walking the beach for short spurts of time, gradually getting used to the area, seeking out reassuring markers. Day by day she’d added more time until now she was out for hours. She’d succeeded with that step.
The second step was to fight her social avoidance with low-risk opportunities. Basically, to talk to nice people one-on-one. Bo had been an answer to a prayer. He worked around the house every day, so it was low-risk. And he was exceedingly friendly, a great storyteller, and easy to talk to. Mission accomplished.
Step three was to speak with someone she’d be potentially interested in dating. Right from the start, Heather had felt an attraction to Bo. Seeing him, she understood what women meant when they talked about having butterflies in their stomachs. Not from anxiety, oh, no. This was a very different kind of fluttering. With most other men, if she was even remotely interested, she’d start self-sabotaging and clamming up, unable to do more than blurt out inane responses. It had been—and still was—humiliating. But with Bo . . . even if her nervousness made her comments less than brilliant, she’d kept up her side of the conversation, not slipping into long silences. She’d even enjoyed the conversations, more than she could have imagined.
The problem had come when Bo asked her for a date. What would seem like a harmless and casual date to most people felt daunting to people with anxiety. She’d backed off, come up with excuses. And in the process threatened a relationship that meant a great deal to her.
Heather slid another glance at Bo as he drove. Her heart melted just looking at him. She had a huge crush, there was no denying it. If she wanted to salvage any hope of a relationship, the moment was now. She had to let Bo know about her anxiety symptoms. If she didn’t, she’d wait and wait and wait and only grow more anxious and stand to lose any chance with him. What was the worst he could do? she asked herself. The answer came quickly. He’d walk away. But he’d do that anyway if she didn’t explain. She clasped her hands in her lap, squeezing tight.
“Hey, Bo?” she said in a soft voice. He didn’t hear her. Heather cleared her throat and started again. “Bo?”
He swung his gaze from the road. “Yeah?”
She looked at her hands. Tell him now, while he’s driving. While you still have the nerve. “I . . . I wanted to talk to you about . . . about when you asked me to dinner.” Heather looked up quickly to see that though his eyes were on the road, his face had grown taut. She knew he was listening. “I want to explain . . . to try to explain why I didn’t go out with you.”
He swung his head from the road to look at her again, amazement in his eyes. “Okay.”
She willed herself to say the words, to not back down now. She clutched her hands together and unconsciously began wringing them in her lap.
“You see, I have what’s called social anxiety. My mama used to call me shy, but it’s much more than that. I had a hard time through high school, but after graduation my mother’s car accident made everything spiral downhill.”
“You were in a car accident?”
“Yeah,” she answered in a soft voice. “I was in pretty bad shape. My mother died in that accident.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She heard the shock in his voice. She had to force herself to continue. “Over time my body healed, but my anxiety symptoms were so much worse. No one could say I was shy anymore. I had a breakdown. I felt nervous and tense all the time. I wouldn’t leave the house. I wouldn’t look people in the eyes.”
She paused to glance at him again, to gauge his reaction. His face was unreadable, his eyes on the road. Worry nagged at her: What did he think of her? Did he think she was bat crazy? She wanted him to say something, but he remained quiet. Listening. The silence dragged on, each second excruciating. Heather gathered herself together and pressed on.
“Anyway, I’ve been in therapy since then. And I take medication. I’ve been working very hard so I wouldn’t be stuck like that forever. And I’ve made progress,” she said, her tone more positive. “I still don’t like going to parties and I hate small talk. I get nervous in new situations and find it hard to go out alone to new places. And”—she laughed lightly—“I’m guessing you figured out I get very anxious during conversations. I’m even nervous talking to you right now.”
“Why?” He turned his head to look at her. “It’s just me.”
“I’m not always nervous talking to you,” she hurried to add. “Actually, you’re one of the few people I’m not nervous to talk with. I enjoy talking with you.” She paused. “A lot.”
“But you’re nervous now?” he asked gently.
“Yes. Because I’m trying to explain what’s going on in my head, and it’s embarrassing.” She felt blood rush to her face. “It’s not something I usually share with anyone. But I care about you and I want you to understand what I’m experiencing. So you’ll understand that the night you invited me to dinner, I wanted to go.”