"My schedule varies," I told him, brows pulling together. "Why?"
"I was wondering if you'd be interested in penciling me in here and there."
"It's not like you to beat around the bush," I told him, confused by his formal tone, his careful wording.
"I still want the drinks and the sand and the beach and long, lazy days," he told me. "But I was thinking maybe I'd like those days, that sand, those beaches, if you were around enjoying them with me."
Across from me, he was fidgeting around in his seat, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.
Nervous?
He was nervous.
And his words almost sounded like he was, I don't know, asking me out?
"Finch, are you asking me out?" I asked, sure I was reading into the situation wrongly.
"Yeah, angel, that's exactly what I'm doing."
"But... why?" I blurted out, shaking my head.
"Why?" he repeated, brows raising. "I know you've been through hell, Chris. I am not saying I know the details that well. And I'm not asking for them. But even so, if that has fucked with your head, you still got to see what an amazing fucking woman you are, right?"
"I... I just." I was sputtering. And a mean, ugly part of me was whispering in my ear that he was just screwing with me, that no one could say and mean something like that about me. "I just don't understand why you would want to sign on for this," I said, waving an arm down at myself.
"For what? Someone smart and confident and accomplished and interesting and beautiful?"
"For someone so screwed up," I corrected.
"You're not screwed up," he objected, frustrated.
"Finch, I have been in therapy, intensively, for the better part of a decade. I've tried all the medications. I've done all the exercises. And even after all of that, I feel comfortable admitting I am pretty damn messed up in the head."
"There's nothing wrong with your head."
"Finch, listen to me," I said, resting my hand on the table, touching the tips of his fingers with mine. "There is. Okay? This isn't a matter of opinion. And I need you to understand that. I am not going to suddenly stop having my nightmares, my panic attacks. I might never stop flinching when men get loud or start fighting. I will likely always obsessively try to control every detail because that is what makes me feel calm and safe. These things are not exactly normal. And I don't want you thinking that they are going to change."
"I'm not asking you to change," he insisted.
"Look. Okay," I tried, taking a steadying breath, pulling my hand back, starting to cross them over my chest before hearing my therapist's voice in my head about not being defensive when a situation was becoming difficult. "I know you know a lot about me. And you've spent a decent amount of time with me. But that doesn't mean you know what you would be getting into here."
"Give me a chance to make that decision for myself," he suggested.
"I can't even honestly say that I know if I can do this," I admitted.
"Again, you can't know that until you try, doll."
That was a rational argument. But I wasn't sure he was considering all the ways that I might never be like other, less damaged women.
"Finch, I think you need to also consider something else that typically comes with seeing another person." God, this was hard. Harder than I could imagine. The words felt fat and clumsy on my tongue, making a cold, slimy sensation move through my belly. "I don't know if I can be physical with someone, Finch," I finally blurted out, hating the way the words sounded, never liking to admit to any shortcomings, even if they were no fault of my own.
"Sweetheart, of course I have thought about that," he told me, voice soft. "And I'd like to think you know me well enough at this point to know I wouldn't pressure you."
"I'm not trying to imply that. I am trying to impress upon you that while you might not see it as an issue now, two weeks from now, two months, two years, you might think it is a huge deal. Physical intimacy is an important part of most romantic relationships."
"Alright," he said, leaning back. "How about this? We give this a shot. The normal way. But with no pressure or expectations. If either one of us feels like the lack of physical intimacy has become a problem, we tap out. No hurt feelings. No anger. We just... go back to being friends."
"You make it sound so easy."
"Not all things are as complicated as you tell yourself they are, love. I'm not saying we are gonna end up with a picket fence and a litter of kids. I'm saying I think we got something here. And that we can at least give it a try. We owe that to ourselves."
"Why not just... stay friends?" I suggested. It seemed the most likely outcome. Why not avoid all the stress of figuring that out?
"If I thought that is what you genuinely wanted from me, from this," he said, waving between us, "I would absolutely agree to that. Like I said, no pressure. No expectations. But I don't think you really want that. I think you have created this idea about what is and what isn't possible. And you stick with it. Despite any mounting evidence to the contrary."
Well.
That was like a punch to the gut.
And it was exactly what my therapist had been trying to say for ages, albeit in more roundabout ways, wanting me to come to the conclusion myself.
"I'm not trying to change you. And I'm not saying you need to change. I'm saying maybe some of your beliefs can be reevaluated. If you do that and you still think there is no way in hell you want to consider starting something more than friendship with me, then like I said, that is okay. I won't be hurt. Or angry. We can still hang out and eat food and I will continue to educate you about good music. And you can keep making my eyes bleed with shitty movies," he said, smirking. "Just think about it, doll, okay? Take however long you need. But think about it."
"Okay," I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I will think about it," I assured him. And, maybe even more so, myself. Because the knee-jerk reaction was to stubbornly stick to my beliefs, my comfort zones.
I owed it to myself to genuinely think it through, to consider that possibilities had shifted.
Even as Finch effortlessly switched topics to something lighter, telling me about a pot dealer who'd shown up to his place looking for the guy who'd apparently been squatting there before, I was starting to realize something.
That things were changing.
That this situation had managed to soften some firmly held beliefs about myself, about what I was and was not capable of experiencing.
Because he was right.
What we had: it was something.
And if we gave it half a chance, I suspected that it could lead to things I had given up on.
Love.
Happiness.
Normalcy.
Well, as normal as a future leader of a paramilitary camp and a world-renowned counterfeiter could have, that is.
On top of that, there was no denying that my body had started to reevaluate its inability to feel something toward a man.
It felt a lot toward Finch already.
Camaraderie. Comfort. Amusement. Safety. Fun. And, what's more, attraction.
I didn't owe it to Finch to explore this.