I can’t believe Michael offered to take me to the doctor. Actually, I can’t believe he spoke enough to even propose he take me to the doctor. I was so surprised and relieved, it’s a wonder I didn’t squeal. Or kiss him. Because I had the insane urge to kiss him—and that should scare me to death. It doesn’t though. Maybe it’s because I know he doesn’t like me. I don’t have to worry about Michael in that way. It makes it easier to be around him, if I’m being honest.

Now that we’re on the road however, I’m full of stress and worry. I’m wringing my hands together trying to snap myself out of it and squash down the panic. Sadly, nothing is working. We pull into the parking lot of the local clinic, and I am still on the edge of a panic attack. I find it ironic that going to the doctor is the main reason this panic attack is coming on and not being alone in a car with a man. Normally, even being around a man would do it—especially if that man was huge, covered in tattoos and mean. I know that’s not fair. Michael’s been kind to me in a weird, strange way. Though still, he is mean. Anger oozes from him. At the same time, I’ve been in the truck with him twice now, and I’ve never once been afraid of him either time—despite the anger.

“You okay?” he asks. Michael has a good voice. It’s deep and gruff, making me wonder if he has a seven pack a day habit. I never smell cigarette smoke on him, so I doubt that’s the case. He doesn’t talk much, and sometimes when he talks his voice breaks off. I’ve noticed the scars marking his hands and arms. There are much fainter ones on his face, and there are some along the collar of his shirt that seem to disappear. By that I mean his beard is so long and bushy it hides them before I can investigate further. I have to wonder if whatever accident he was in has left some permanent damage to his voice. Maybe talking hurts him and he’s silent, not because he just hates being bothered with me, but because it’s physically painful. Not likely, but a girl can dream.

“Yeah. You can just wait out here for me. I’m never in there for long,” I tell him, not really looking at his face. I go to undo my seatbelt and his hand stops me. He puts his much larger, scarred and ink covered hand over mine, swallowing it. I stare at our hands for a minute. I can’t help but wonder how much pain a man had to endure to have the kinds of scars he has marring his skin. They’re burn scars. I don’t have a doubt in that. I had a neighbor once who got trapped in a house fire, and he had scars that were so much like these. I bring over my other hand, moving my finger across his ink. I feel a shift in the mood surrounding us. It’s so drastic that it becomes an almost physical thing. I feel his hand tighten on mine underneath. His fingers clamp down tightly until he’s holding it to the point of pain. I drag my eyes up to look at him. Can he read my nervousness in my eyes?

“What’s wrong?” he asks again, more insistent. I get a little lost in his dark coffee eyes…so dark they’re almost liquid black. They’re dark, inky and seem to drill deep down inside of me. I swallow, wondering if those dark eyes see all my secrets. They seem like they penetrate so deeply they must know everything. They draw me in so profoundly that I lose track of everything, including the fact I’m letting my thumb move back and forth along one of the grooved indentions on his hand.

“Nothing,” I lie. “Thank you for bringing me. I’ll try and hurry.”

I wait for him to move his hand. When he doesn’t, I get this nervous flutter in my stomach that’s clearly not the baby. What is happening to me?

Michael clears his throat, then increases his already painful pressure on my hand. “I’ll go in too,” he says, and my breath lodges in my throat.

I don’t want that. I really, really don’t want that. Michael hasn’t made a secret of how he feels about me. I pushed it aside, because despite his judgments—and admittedly, some of them were not wrong, he’s been really nice to me, and I haven’t had that a lot in my life. But, once he sees how the others treat me and feels he has his judgments confirmed, our tenuous friendship will end. I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want that to happen in a way that means if it does, I will grieve it. Even though all I’ve done for two weeks is bake desserts and take them to his door, he feels like the first real friend I’ve ever had. With the exception of Charlie, but she’s also a woman and my boss, so the dynamic is extremely different.

“No. It’s okay. I will—” I don’t finish, mostly because he has my seatbelt undone, out of the truck and is standing at my door all before I look up.

Michael actually has my door open and is grunting. A clear sign for me to get out of the vehicle, I’m sure. He does all of this before I make a move. And even then, I still don’t move. I don’t move because I’m staring at my hand. The hand that he had his overtop of. The hand his fingers were pressed into painfully. The hand that felt like electricity has been steadily pounding inside of it. The hand that now feels…sad. Can hands feel sad? Mine does. So sad, that it makes the rest of me gloomy. Despondent enough that I’m pretty sure the emotion I’m grappling with is…loneliness.

What is happening to me?