Begin Round Three

We were seated at a booth in a small, nearly-deserted restaurant. Aiden was clearly nervous, talking so fast and so loudly that the one guy at the bar on the other end of the room must have wondered what was wrong with him. I waited it out, and after a few minutes he settled down.

We chatted about this and that, over a distinct awkwardness that kept me looking out the window over his shoulder instead of into his eyes. I asked about his depression, and when I could actually see it on his face for the first time, I took his hand across the table. He asked about the club, and about the incident that happened at St. Michael's. I haven't mentioned this because I still won't talk about it, but it was one of my lowest points.

"You don't have to tell me," he said. "I just want you to know that if you want to talk, I want to listen, and I won't judge you."

I couldn't speak. He got the hint and changed the subject, asking about my bandmates, but I couldn't derail my brain quite so easily. I stumbled and couldn't even spit out the name of our drummer. Aiden got up from his booth and came to sit in mine, where he wrapped me in a hug.

He felt so good, so familiar and comforting. He held my head against his shoulder while I cried, then told me to face the other way. I did so, momentarily puzzled; then he started rubbing my shoulders, and I melted.

"You haven't let your guard down in a long time, have you?" he asked softly. I slumped back against his chest while he wrapped his arms around me, and shook my head. My life had become a game of scrapping for my comfort and safety - a little here, a little there, constantly moving my walls around to protect myself. My only physical contact with other people happened at work, and it was generally against my will. Somehow it was still all there in Aiden's hug, the complete package - the warmth, the support, the safety I hadn't felt in so long I'd almost forgotten what it was like. I could've sat in that booth for a month.

The heat of his touch was starting to melt my brain, and an old familiar spiral appeared. I knew where I wanted this to go...but he was unavailable, like always. I turned so we were seated side by side again and rested my head on his shoulder, the bridge of my nose against the warm, soft skin of his neck. His arms stayed locked around me. I put my leg over his so I could slide closer.

"How is it always so easy for us to cuddle?" he wondered.

I turned further towards him, hugging so we were cheek to cheek. My skin was on fire and my breath was quick and shallow. My palms started to sweat.

"My heart is beating so hard right now," he whispered, placing my hand against his chest so I could feel it.

I knew this cliff, and I desperately wanted to jump off it, but I was afraid. Not of the situation; I already knew there was no way it could end well. I'd been down that road, and I accepted that it led to the fires of hell. I knew I was going to be alone and there was nothing I could do about it. Heartache and loneliness had become a familiar part of me, a touchstone, comfortingly steady in their own strange way. I knew I could take it, going home alone, wishing it was me while he clung to someone else.

What I couldn't take was if he pulled away, if he said, No, I'm sorry, I can't. I can't do that to Shelby. Leave me alone.

That would've crushed me.

His lips moved against the side of my face, but there were no words, and suddenly I knew. I put my lips on his and kissed him gently, then harder, and he returned my kiss without hesitation. My hand went to the back of his neck, to his hair, to the side of his face. I couldn't get enough of the warm, loving feel of him, thought I might never be able to get enough as long as I lived. All the intimate touch I had in my life was empty, angry, demanding, something I silently screamed against while pasting a big fake smile on my face. The caring in his kiss was such a relief it hurt.

"I love you," he whispered, and I buried my face in his shoulder and cried.