I feel him squeeze my hand, then he slowly backs away and lets go of my hand. We hold gazes for a moment before I finally glance away.
"I think I'm done with the pizza," I say looking down at my two half-eaten slices. I always take two slices of pizza, even if I can't eat them both. Even numbers are better than odd.
"Let's have dessert." He takes my plate and puts it in the trash can he has sitting on the deck. "Do you still have the pie?"
"Oh, yeah. I forgot to bring it over. I'll go get it."
"It'll take you forever to get there and back. I'll just run over and get it." He holds his hand out. "You got a key?"
"You can just go in. I left it open."
"You left your house unlocked? What the hell? You want criminals to just walk right in?"
"I left the back door open, not the front. I can see it from here. I'd see if someone went in."
He lets out a frustrated sigh. "From now on, you lock your doors. Even when you're over here."
"Yeah, fine," I say, just so he'll let it go. "The fridge is on your left when you walk in. The pie is on the top shelf." As he's walking off, I yell, "And don't be snooping in my house!"
I'm letting him go in my house. No one ever goes in my house. But he's already been in there and he doesn't know about my past so he can't confront me about why it still looks the way they left it.
When Nash told me about his stepmom and then about Becky, I almost told him what happened to my family. I could feel his loss, his pain, his sadness, so I thought there might be a chance he'd understand what I'm going through. But then I came to my senses and realized he doesn't need to know. I just met him and he's leaving in a few months, so why tell him something so personal?
Nash and I aren't going to be friends. He'll be spending all his time on this house and I'll be doing whatever I have to do to get through each day. I'm surprised I made it through this dinner without having a panic attack. Normally, when I veer from my schedule, the memories come flooding back. Images of Ben running up to give me one of his monkey hugs, my mom and me making cookies at Christmas, Greg showing me how to change a tire. It's like a constant video playing in my head, torturing me. And if it's not the memories, it's the questions. The 'why' questions that suck the air from my lungs and stab at my chest.
I'm feeling it now as I sit here alone on this deck. That anxious, sick feeling that always comes before the images start flashing in my head. Shit. I knew I shouldn't have come over here. Always stick to the schedule. The counting. They're the only things that stop the memories.
I scoot my chair back but it gets caught on the deck floorboards and I fall back, along with the chair.
"Callie?" I hear Nash's voice then see him take the stairs in two giant steps. "What happened?" He sets the pie on the table as I push off the ground.
"Your chair tried to kill me," I say, annoyed and embarrassed. He must think I'm a total klutz. Every time he's around I'm tripping and falling.
He helps me up, trying not to laugh. "My chair tried to kill you? Seriously?"
"Well, obviously. Didn't you see what it did to me?"
He puts the chair upright and stands back, looking at it. "It does look dangerous. Those beady eyes. Those sharp teeth."
I swat at him. "Yeah. Fine. Laugh at me. But I'm telling you, it's possessed."
"Here. Try this one." He slides one of the other chairs over.
"No." I yank my chair up behind me and sit down. "I have to show this one who's boss."
He smiles. "You okay? Did you get hurt at all?"
"No questions, remember? Just forget it ever happened." I scoot up to the table. "Do you have anything to cut the pie?"
"I found this in your drawer." He pulls a pie cutter out of his back pocket and hands it to me. "My grandma had one of these. I think it's for pie."
"Yeah, it's for both cutting and serving." I cut through the center of the pie. "Why were you going through my drawers? I told you not to snoop."
"I needed something to cut the pie." He sits down next to me, watching as I cut the pie into eight even slices. "So you have a cat?"
I stop cutting and look at him. "No questions. You promised."
He leans back in his chair. "So you have a cat."
"You already asked me that." I grab a paper plate and slide a piece of pie onto it.
"The first time I asked you. The second time was a declarative statement."
I roll my eyes. "Oh, God, not this again. You and your declarative statements."
"They can be useful when you're banned from asking questions." He grabs some forks and sets one next to me. "So...you have a cat."
"Unfortunately, yes." I serve myself some pie, cutting the single slice in two. Even numbers, never odd.
"Why unfortun—" He catches himself and says, "You don't like the cat. Or you don't like cats in general."
I shrug. "I have no problem with cats. But this one hates me, so we don't get along."