Page 27 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
WHEN WE WALK into the theater, I keep my head down and let Rick navigate us to our seats. I’m shaking so hard that I stagger a few times, and Rick wraps an arm around my waist to keep me over my feet.
We’re in the first row of the mezzanine, which means no one is going to turn around and see me. I angle myself toward Rick, and it feels almost private.
“Okay?” he asks, taking my hand.
“Okay.”
As his fingertip traces the lines of my palm, my anxiety starts to melt away and my heart begins to pound for a whole different reason.
“Did you ever figure out what your aunt plays?” I ask to distract myself.
“Something with strings.”
“Yeah,” I say, a smile forcing its way onto my mouth. “That really narrows it down.”
The first chords start and I settle back into my seat. Rick doesn’t let go of my hand. His thumb rubs circles on the backs of my fingers and I lean into him as I lose myself in the music.
“So, what does she play?” I ask at intermission.
“What’s the one that’s bigger than a violin, but still goes under your chin?” he asks, tweaking my chin.
“A viola, I think.”
“That’s it! She plays the viola. She wants us to come down after.”
My eyes widen and turn toward the blur of the stage below. “Down . . . there?”
He wraps his arm around my shoulders and jiggles my stiff body. “We don’t have to, but she’d love to meet the girl who finally got me here.”
I’m shaking again as the house lights dim. Rick pulls me close and rests his cheek against the top of my head. The chattering around us stops and I work to slow my breathing, afraid everyone can hear it.
But the crash of cymbals breaking the silence sends me flying out of my seat with a scream.
“Hey?” Rick says, his voice soft and his arms instantly around me.
Explosions. Screams. I’m suffocating.
He pulls me to his side and ushers me up to the elevator, the whole time murmuring, “I’m so sorry,” over and over.
I don’t even know how we get to the car, but once we’re shut in, we just sit. I wipe the sweat from my face with the sleeve of my sweater, and try to quiet the rasp of my breathing.
Finally, he takes my hand.
I tip my head against the headrest. “There goes our second date, down the tubes. Third time’s the charm?”
“Technically, that was our third date. Cold Stone was two, and that went okay, so we’re batting three-thirty-three.”
I blow out a weak laugh and roll my head to look at him, but I can’t really make much out in the dark. “I’m a fucking mess. Why are you even bothering with me?”
There’s a long pause where all I hear is the traffic outside the car and him breathing. “Listen, V. Before the accident—”
“It wasn’t an accident.” It comes out sharper than I mean it to.
“Sorry. I get that. But before everything, when we were Skyping . . .” He trails off and I wait. “I really liked you. A lot. You were a total smart-ass, and strong, and sexy, and so fucking beautiful that I couldn’t stop thinking about you. When you stopped Skyping, the first thing I thought was that you’d hooked up with someone over there and it made me want to do things to him. It wasn’t until I couldn’t even get ahold of you on e-mail that I began to think it was worse than that. I got desperate and texted Lexie, who texted Katie, and all I got back from Katie was a ‘Stay the hell away from my little sister,’ which I took as a good sign. At least it meant you were alive. The day you finally returned my e-mail . . . there aren’t even words for how relieved I felt.”
My heart is pounding. I lift my hand and his breath stalls as my fingertips find the short scruff over his jawline. It’s softer than I thought it would be. I trail along his jaw to his tiny earlobe, then over his high cheekbone to his eyebrow, trying to memorize him by touch. I fight to remember all the little details of his face—how his right eyebrow arches a little higher than his left; the small, dark mole at the left corner of his mouth; the flare at the end of his narrow nose; how clear his blue eyes are, like there’s nothing they can’t see.
What if I forget how beautiful he is?
