Page 61 of Defend Her Heart

“Ready?”

We walk hand-in-hand together to the entrance of his apartment. I’m pretending I’m still holding his hand because I need his assistance, but deep down I know that’s not the case. It feels good. It feels natural.

I’ve made some wonderful friends here in Green Bay already, and I know I’ll always have Tamara. But there’s something totally different about being around people and being physically known by someone.

This illness not only cost me my dream, but it cost me my mental health. For the past two years, the loneliness I feltwasn’t loud. It didn’t ache or echo in obvious ways. It kind of settled quietly into the spaces that no one else could notice. It was in the empty stretch of the bed when Bryan would rather sleep anywhere else but with me. It was in the way that no one reached out to me for a hug without thinking. But with Connor, it’s automatic. He’s always there before I even expect him to be.

I had people in St. Louis. I have people now. There’s laughter and noise. I’m finally starting to fill my calendar with plans. But no one has held me in so long. I didn’t realize how touch-starved I’d become until his hand found mine.

Suddenly, I’m all too aware of every moment I went without this. Contact. Every time I’d fold in on myself because there was no one to lean into. Every night when I’d fall asleep untouched, unheld, like I trained myself not to need it.

Connor brushes his thumb over the top of my hand, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Like he’s trying to tell me he’s still here. He’s got me. Butterflies swirl in the pit of my stomach. How long has it been since someone threaded their fingers through mine like this? Like they simply belong there?

Not only do I feel the warmth of Connor’s hand, but there’s something else. Recognition? It feels as if my body is inhaling something other than fear for the first time in years.

My fingers tighten around his instinctively before I can stop them. I feel almost desperate for his touch. Because this simple, steady pressure of holding hands with him…it’s been what’s missing. Not just conversation or company, because I have that. It’s human touch, the quiet reassurance of someone choosing to stay connected, even in silence.

We make it to the elevator before I even recognize we’ve walked through the lobby of his building. You know when you’re driving somewhere and by the time you get there, you barely remember what you saw along the way? You’re just happy to get there? That’s what this feels like, being here with him.

Connor scans a key fob once we’re in the elevator and I turn to him with a raised eyebrow. “The penthouse? Really?”

He squeezes my hand and shrugs. “It might not be the fanciest apartment building in town, but I still like my privacy.”

Fair enough.

The elevator ride is too short, yet too long. I’m hyperaware of our proximity, the scent of his cologne or body wash invading my senses. He smells of leather and something else I can’t quite name. Whatever it is, I fucking like it.

We slow to a stop, and I find myself wishing the doors won’t open. Just five more minutes. I don’t want him to let go. I don’t want there to be space between us. And yet, realizing I’m wishing these things about Connor, causes me to panic. I can barely take care of myself. I shouldn’t be thinking this about anyone, let alone him.

The doors slide open, and I exhale a breath. As soon as we step into his apartment, we both seem to realize we’re still holding hands because at the same time, we let go. Our fingers trail across each other’s in the most dramatic fashion, both of us watching as it happens like we’re in some sort of soap opera or something.

As soon as we’re apart, I fold my arms, hugging myself because I already feel the loss of him. That feeling doesn’t last long, though. Because as soon as I turn my head to take in the space, I go completely still.

My eyes catch on one detail, then another. The colors, the style, the layout. The stupid little things that no one else would think twice about.

My stomach drops.

Because I know this place.

I shouldn’t.

But I do.

AGE SEVENTEEN

“Tell me again about this assignment. Why do you need my help?” Avery is lying on her stomach on my bed, her feet kicked up behind her, with no idea how beautiful she looks right now. Her long black hair falls over her shoulders, a little wavy after her shower. The cute little dimple I love so much pops as she flips through a magazine. If I didn’t have to draw this home design for my computer-aided design class, I’d totally be drawing her right now.

I tap my pencil on my drawing pad and look over the project outline again. I skim the directions and read aloud the important ones to help Avery understand what I’m supposed to be doing.

“Before we move to the computer-design aspect of this project, I want you to sketch your design on paper. Blah, blah, blah. Technology is the future, but there is something you can’t quite achieve with a computer. Blah, blah. Sometimes, putting pencil to paper unlocks creativity you may be missing with computer design.”

Avery drops her magazine on the bed andlooks up at me. “Why are you sayingblah, blah, blah? I think he’s right. I mean, I prefer an old-school calendar to the one on my phone.”

I laugh and toss my pencil gently, aiming for the spot next to her. “That is totally not the same thing and you know it.”

She sits up and swings her legs so they’re dangling off the side of my bed.

“Fine. I still think he’s onto something, though. Now, tell me why you need my help.”