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Michael
I nstead of feeling like I learn more and more about Brianna every day, she becomes more and more of a mystery every day. I want to learn about her and it seems she only wants to ask questions about me and my past.
After we shower and I bring in the rest of the luggage, I leave Brianna upstairs to finish getting ready, and wander downstairs in a pair of shorts and a plain T-shirt. I’m going to have to open up more if I want things to progress with her, but I’m going to need her to open up with me, too, and I’m not sure we’re on the same page.
I grab a bottle of wine from the cellar and open it in the kitchen. While I let it breathe, I dig into the freezer and find a nice salmon filet I can grill for dinner. I thought about going into town, but that’ll just distract me from Brianna, or her from me, and that’s the last thing I want right now.
When I hear her footsteps on the stairs, I pour her a glass of wine and head in that direction. Instead of finding her going to the kitchen, I find her in the living room, staring out the large windows at the mountains and the valley. The trees slope down, the tips of them glowing in the sunlight, and the sky is darkening into a cerulean blue.
“This is where I want to live when I grow up,” she jokes.
I pass her the glass of wine and join her at the window. “Really? You’ve already decided even though you’ve only been here a day? You haven’t even seen the rest of the town yet.”
“I don’t care. I’ve always wanted to live in the mountains. As long as I have the internet, I can set up anywhere.” She glances over, then flushes. “Sorry. Just wishful thinking. I don’t even have a career yet.”
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” I say to her.
She sips her wine before answering. “Do what?”
“Apologize for saying things like that. For wishful thinking. For dreaming. And definitely don’t belittle what you’ve started. Everyone has to start somewhere.”
“I’m kind of far along in my life for new beginnings—at least career-wise.”
“You’re never too far along in life. I think that’s a good goal,” I say. “To get your business going. You have time, and you have help.”
She bites her lip, clearly not in agreement. Part of me wants to shake her and say, “Just tell me what you’re thinking!” but there has to be a better way to get her to open up. To get her to trust me.
“You want to eat out on the deck? It’s a perfect evening for it,” I say.
She glances to the deck, eyes turning wistful again. Slightly unlocking that part of her I’m longing to know. “Yes. Let’s do that.”
We cook together, me at the grill and her putting together a salad and some rice. A simple meal, but it feels bigger than it is. More important. Because we did it together. Like a real couple.
My mom would die if she saw this. So would my sister. Going on a date with someone means a casual interest. Cooking together is a whole other story.
At least that what they’d think.
And they’d be right. Cooking, vacationing at a family spot, buying personal gifts for each other…those are all things I’ve never done before with my other girlfriends.
These are intimate things, ways in which my parents bond with each other. And now I am.
With Brianna.
We bring dinner and the wine to the back deck and sit at the table, candles flickering in the middle. Instead of sitting across from her, I sit on Brianna’s right, allowing her a view of the mountains and trees.
“You’re spending more time looking than eating,” I comment.
She glances over, cheeks flushing, and automatically lifts her fork. “Sorry.”
The words strike something in me, a flicker of irritation that quickly morphs into concern. I’ve heard and seen her apologize for things that aren’t her fault before, but didn’t think much of it.
Now…I’m beginning to suspect there’s more of a reason.
“Tell me about your family,” I suggest, taking a roundabout approach.
She flashes an easy smile. “They’re not like yours at all.”
I nod, encouraging her to continue.
“Your sister invited me to go shopping with her,” she says instead. “Like we’re best friends. She invited Deb, too.”
Before she can say anything else, I take her hand. She glances up, surprised.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
I choose my words carefully. My mom and dad are always insisting us kids use “I” and “feel” words to solve personal and relational issues even though I’ve never had a relationship to speak of. I never thought it would benefit me until now.
I hold Brianna’s gaze. “I feel like…you’re avoiding talking about some things with me.”
Her eyes dash away, looking at the scenery again. When she looks back, her smile has returned, but I can tell it’s forced. “It’s not intentional. You know, we all have our ghosts.” She winces like she hadn’t meant to say what she had. She waves off the comment. “I’m not trying to avoid…I just figure there are things we don’t want to talk about, right?”
No, I want to talk about everything. Shit. Everything except for one thing. One thing I never, ever thought would be an issue. But that—that isn’t something I need to bring up.
She picks up her fork again. “It doesn’t really affect what’s going on with us.”
“Doesn’t it?” I ask softly.
She shrugs.
I guess that depends on what this is. I lean back in my seat, stuffing down my frustration to try to get to the bottom of this.
“If this is an arrangement—just a show, part of our contract,” I say, “then you’re right. Our history doesn’t affect what’s going on with us.”
Brianna’s eyes flash with something I can’t define. Fear. Hurt. She takes a long swallow of her wine and then stands and walks to the rail.
Part of me is pissed off at myself for ruining dinner, and the other part figures it’s about time we have this conversation. We’re a month into this thing and there’s something between us. Not just a flicker or a small spark of interest. It’s a big thing. A truckload of interest that has me reeling because it’s something I’ve never felt before.
I walk to the rail and stand next to Brianna. In the waning light of the evening, I glance over, trying to see her face. When I catch sight of a single tear sliding down her cheek, my heart clutches.
“Brianna,” I say, reaching for her. “What’s wrong?”
She sets aside her wine glass and tries to wipe away her tears. “I’m sorry. It’s—”
“Stop apologizing.” I gentle my voice. “Please. Just talk to me.”
She sniffles, and then wraps her arms around my neck, hanging on tight. All I can do is be her rock until she’s ready to talk—and this is the first time I’ve wanted to.
I want to be here for Brianna, and I want her to trust me.