Page 11 of Under the Weatherman
Was that a come-on? Or had my atmospheric instruments warped from so much disuse? “I suppose. Reading weather is sort of a mix of theory and practice. And magic.”
“How so?”
“I mean, there truly is science behind everything, but interpretation is an art. Our tools are super advanced now, so it’s much less staring at the skies and holding a wet finger up into the wind. But still, forecasts can be wildly incorrect. Snow can fall when you least expect it.”
“You make it sound like poetry.”
I laughed. “Nobody has ever accused me of that before.”
We sat quiet for a minute, and I started to wonder if I should leave when she dropped a hand on my knee. “So do you come back east often?”
I stared at her hand, trying to grapple with the implications. Then I lifted my eyes to hers, hoping she’d read my lack of reaction as permission. “I visit my parents in Annapolis once or twice a year.”
“How often do you visit Bas?” Her voice gave away some anxiety, and I didn’t know how to interpret that. Was she nervously working her way up to something more? Could we rekindle a decade-old flame I’d snuffed without even knowing?
If I was being honest, I wanted to get to know her again. It wasn’t just because she was so pretty. She was still funny and easygoing. Not to mention smart, kind, and interesting. Plus we shared so much in common. We both loved books, which I hadn’t even known to look for in a partner. And we both understood shyness or anxiety. Whatever made this so very awkward.
She prodded me. “I meant how often do you come back to Charlottesville,” and I understood her true question. Would this effectively be a one-night stand if I stayed tonight?
The truth was: my future was undetermined. There was a non-zero chance I might land a job here, but Charlottesville wasn’t my only option. Once I went back home, we could keep the lines of communication open, but sex would add a complexity that might be harder to navigate.
Still, I stared at her mouth, wondering what it would feel like to kiss her, wondering why I hadn’t all those years ago.
“Bas and I kept in touch after college, but we’ve been terrible at making the effort to see each other.” We were both chasing after careers, and whatever holidays we had were devoted to work or family.
Her smile slipped, like she was doing the same logistical gymnastics as me. “What brought you here this time?”
“I was pursuing a possible opportunity.”
“Oh yeah?” Her hand slid a few inches up my thigh, and the promise of her desire sent a crackle of electricity straight to my cock. “Like you might be moving here?”
I didn’t want to make promises I couldn’t keep, so I didn’t think it worth telling her about the job interview. And if I did come here, there was no guarantee she’d want anything more serious with me.
Tonight might be all we got.
But if I allowed this to go on, my therapist would dissect it for months. After I’d spent the past year avoiding all offers of intimacy, Dr. Price would be right to wonder if the allure of Lizzy was the fact she represented what came before, like a wormhole to my innocent self.
Thatwasa part of the attraction, believing I could trust her to be who she claimed she was and not secretly married or worse.
“Elizabeth,” I said, in a tone that sounded scolding even to my ears.
Hurt settled in her eyes, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment as she swallowed and pulled away. She let out a shaky breath. “God, I’m sorry. I misread—” She sat back, her hand settling back in her lap. “Does rejection ever stop being so mortifying.”
Her comment hit like a dagger to my heart. Had I hurt her when we were kids? Before she could get up and kick me out, I took her hand. “I wasn’t rejecting you.” I didn’t know how to broach this topic, so I just took full responsibility. “I’m just ruled by my fears.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
I recalled Chelsea’s soul-baring confession earlier tonight, how Elizabeth had loyally stood by her, and hoped she’d be as understanding with my murky trust issues. “Believe it or not, I’ve been dealing with anxiety and low self-esteem most of my life, and it’s not an excuse, I know, but sometimes I act out of self-preservation.” I grinned weakly, trying to brave my way through this long overdue explanation. “Being back here, I’ve had to face down a few leftover demons. High school for me was pretty brutal, but obviously that has nothing to do with you.”
She winced. “I guess I should apologize for dredging those feelings up for you. I never meant to appear like some ghost of your past.”
Again, she was apologizing when she’d done nothing wrong.
“No, I’m really glad you did.” I sighed. “I’m a bit of a mess, but I’m working on it. Lots of therapy.” What was that one Shakespeare quote she’d scribbled down, something about losing by fearing to attempt? I squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry. Is it too late to ask for a do-over.”
She breathed in, and I braced for her to tell me off.
“Not to psychoanalyze you, but I’ve come to understand how much fear comes from visibility, from being exposed. It’s a proactive aversion to shame. Jacques Lacan says”—she waved toward the cat, now eying me warily from the other side of the coffee table—“the psychoanalyst, not the cat, and I’m going to massively paraphrase this, and probably get it wrong… Shame comes from seeing yourself being seen. Even if the person seeing you is purely imaginary.”
