“Like, he wanted to make sure I was okay, living here. He worries more than he should about me.”
Her tone and the frustration in her expression implied a different meaning to her words, something like, He worries more than I deserve.
“He’s your brother, of course he’s going to worry.”
“He should be focusing on his family.”
“You are his family.”
She folded the napkin in half. “You know what I mean.”
“Until Quinn said something last week, I didn’t know you had a nephew. Congratulations.”
“I haven’t met him.”
“Yet.”
Shelly’s eyes cut back to mine, held. “Yet,” she agreed, sounding determined.
“Does your brother know why you don’t touch people?”
She swallowed, considering me for a second before shaking her head. “He knows I’m in therapy here, in Tennessee. We’ve corresponded via mail and he still manages my commissions, so I wrote him a letter and told him that I was in therapy But Quinn doesn’t know my diagnosis, we haven’t discussed it.”
Commissions?
“Commissions?”
“Yes. He’s always handled my contracts.” Shelly looked like she was going to explain further, but was interrupted by Beverly dropping off a whole banana and a side dish of butter.
Shelly picked up her banana, cut off the very top and the very bottom with her butter knife, then meticulously peeled it, one panel at a time. She set the peels to the side, one on top of the other, then sliced into the banana, cutting it at precise intervals and arranging the circles in a spiral design on her side plate.
I was so mesmerized by her meticulous banana peeling and cutting ritual that I forgot what we were talking about.
She considered the peeled fruit as though considering a weighty manner, saying, “He knows I cut myself. He was the first to find out. I think that’s why he worries.”
I blinked away from the intricate design of her banana slices and brought her back into focus. “Cutting your wrists is a good reason for a brother to worry.”
“I don’t want to die. Cutting is not about that. It has a stigma, an association with suicide that isn’t always valid, and it confuses people.” Her forehead wrinkled with clear consternation. “I want to live, I’ve always wanted to live. That is why I’m here.”
“I believe you.”
If she said so, then I believed her.
And for the record, thank God.
“Good.” She seemed to breathe easier after the words left my mouth, her attention returning to the napkin. “He checked my arms, and my legs, last week.”
“Your legs?” I sat up straighter. “Did you used to—”
“No. But he wanted to be certain. It’s why he let me stay, because I haven’t been cutting.”
I raised an eyebrow at that, unable to imagine a world where anyone let Shelly Sullivan do anything.
She scratched the back of her neck, her eyes darting to me and then away. “This is a horrible first date conversation. Sorry I am so depressing.”
“It’s not depressing and I don’t mind. I want to know about you.”
“But everything out of my mouth is about self-harm, overprotective brothers, fractured relationships, and death.”
The way she said this made me smile. And then she rolled her eyes at herself and my smile stretched into a grin.
“I promise, I’m not morbid. I have hobbies.”
Giving her a disarming grin, I decided a change of subject was in order. “So, about these hobbies . . .”
“I don’t knit, if that’s what you were going to ask. My sister-in-law crochets. I would like to learn how to do that.”
“I wasn’t, but good to know. I was going to ask if you like getting dressed up, going out, and doing things.”
“You mean other than to get pancakes?”
“I was thinking more like going to a wedding.”
She inspected me, like I’d confused her. “Going to weddings is not a hobby of mine.”
She sounded so serious I had to suppress a laugh. “No, honey. Sorry. That was my roundabout way of inviting you to go with me to Jethro and Sienna’s wedding.”
“Oh.” She sat straighter as her eyes moved up and to the side. “I . . . I don’t know. I mean, I don’t do well in crowds.”
“I’ll protect you.” I tried to sound teasing.
“I’m not the one who needs protecting.” Her gaze came back to mine. “Won’t you be a groomsman?”
“Ah, yes.” I hadn’t thought of that. She’d be on her own, in a crowd, trying not to accidentally touch people.
“Maybe I could go to the reception?” she offered.
“Oh yeah. Sure. Think about it. No need to decide now. There’s no pressure.”
Shelly nodded and how her brow furrowed made me uneasy. She seemed to be frustrated with herself, or maybe growing frustrated with the turn of our date.
This woman had so many layers, and I wanted to know them all. I could be patient. I didn’t want to push her away by coming on too strong.
And yet, she’d been so open with me. Maybe she needed to know I could be equally open with her, so I changed direction a little. Drawing in a large breath, I studied the uncertainty and embarrassment plaguing her features, and decided something.
“My mother died last year.”
She flinched back a fraction of an inch, but much of her frustration melted away. “How?”
“Cancer. She was forty-seven.” . . . I think.
“That’s very young.” The embarrassment and uncertainty melted from her features, leaving only concern.
“It was, it is.” I moved my gaze to the table, thinking back on her last birthday and realizing I couldn’t remember if she’d turned forty-seven or forty-six.
“You miss her.”
“Yes, I do.”
We were quiet for a time and Shelly placed her hand on the table, her fingers just a half inch from mine. Glancing at her, her expression was one of frustration as she stared at my hand. Now that I knew her better, I could see desire—to comfort me, to touch me—was written all over her face.
I covered her hand and watched as she turned hers palm up, entwining our fingers and giving mine a squeeze. She also released a sigh.
“You miss Desmond?”
She nodded, her attention still on our hands. “He was the best person.”
“He’s the best? What about Quinn?”
Shelly visibly hesitated and seemed to be debating how to respond. “He was and is also the best person, but very different than Desmond.”
“How so?”
“Like you and your twin.”
“You mean Desmond was handsome and charming, and Quinn is boring and surly?”
Shelly pressed her lips together like she was fighting another grin and lifted her gaze to mine. “Something like that.”
“What are your parents like?”
Her eyes fell away. “They are also the best.”
“You’re very close?”
“No.”
“No?”
“It’s my fault.” Wrinkles appeared on her forehead and she withdrew her hand. “I’ve never been able to be what they deserve.”
Now that was a heartbreaking statement.
“They said that?”
She shook her head. “I’m not stupid. I know what I am.”
“And what’s that?”
“Exhausting.” She rubbed her forehead. “I exhaust myself. Or, I used to. I feel like I’m much better now, less . . .”