Page 17 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

More walking. I’m careful not to say I like anything, lest he suddenly demand it be wrapped up and put in my car.

“What did you mean, ‘knowing’?” I ask, because I’ve never learned the art of being quiet unless threatened by the stare of an older relative or a concert hall hush.

“Oh. Knowing. I know people who have left. I know people who stay. I know there are people who should stay, because this is a good place, and it deserves good people. Needs good people. You’re good people. We’d be lucky to have you.”

“Aw. Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

Gordon doesn’t answer.

I know what I think she should say. She should say she won’t leave. She should say she believes me, just because I don’t have any reason to lie.

On the other hand, why should she believe me? Or think I’m honest? I don’t know if I’m dating correctly. I give her things when she likes them, because it makes her happy. I love when she’s happy. I don’t know how to show that, either, and she makes me do stupid things like break bowling balls and give her these painfully awkward smiles that make my jaw hurt.

And I said yes to dinner at her place.

That’s a second date. I didn’t even want to go on the first one.

But now I’m glad I did.

“I don’t know what to say, either,” I confess, deeply miserable about my failure.

To my surprise, Andrea doesn’t demand I speak, or cluck in disapproval. Her hand just slips inside of mine.

So little. So light. These fingers make magical sounds of keys and strings. I make sure I don’t squeeze hard, just curl my fingers a little bit to let her know I like when she touches me.

If she knew I were a troll, if she knew my family had eaten her kind, had eaten cats, dogs, and whatever kills they could make—she wouldn’t like me. Or touch me.

My chest feels like the bowling ball. One big hole.

“I like that you don’t make up answers. Maybe sometimes people don’t need to talk to be happy together. Companionable silence. It’s a thing. It never happened in my house.”

“Mine, either.”

“My parents talked non-stop,” she giggles.

“Mine fought. Or the silence was dangerous,” I admit before I can stop myself.

Instead of retreating, Andrea squeezes her fingers around mine, tightly. “That must have been a rotten way to grow up.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you’re alone?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not right. A guy like you should have a... Sorry. My mouth and brain are incommunicado right now,” she chuckles, a forced, strained sound.

“Should have a dog?” I suggest. I know firefighters and Dalmatians are always together, like bacon and eggs, on kids’ shows and movies.

“Should have a family who adores you.”

“Oh. Oh?”

“You’d be good at it.”

“At what?”

“Being there. Making people feel safe. Feel better. It’s what good people do. I know.”