Page 90 of After We Fall

“I wasn’t jealous.” He kisses the top of my head. “So. You gonna give me that first date?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation.

“No, baby. I’m asking if—”

I look up. “I know what you’re asking. And you’re worthy of a first date.”

Relief crosses his face, then morphs into affection. He draws me to him and wraps his arms around my shoulders, tucking me into his cocoon, his heat. He presses his lips to my forehead. “You okay with everything? With you and me?”

I snake my arms around his waist and nod. “I’m a little scared.”

“Me too,” he says against my forehead.

“Liar,” I say, almost scoffing. “You’re not scared of anything.”

He pulls me in tighter, leaning down to speak into my ear. “I’m just trying to be all manly and not show you any sign of fear. Is it working?”

I rest my face on his chest. He feels pretty manly to me, though I don’t say those words out loud.

But something thick hangs between us.

“Be scared with me, baby,” he says, his whisper full of a vulnerability that draws me closer to him than the strong arms wrapped around me. “We’ll do this together.”

Too many feelings skyrocket off the allotted scales all at once, with no way to discern or catalog them. Happiness. Safety. Affection. Attraction. Love. They tear through the walls of my heart, forging uncharted paths, leaving hope to fill the canyons.

“Together.” I swallow. “We’ll do this together.”

22

“You’re such a hippie,” Luke says through his laughter.

Smiling so hard my cheeks hurt, I make a failed attempt to counter with, “I am not.”

“Olivia Newton-John? Come on.”

“‘Physical.’ ‘Heart Attack.’ ‘Twist of Fate.’ None of those identify with the ’60s and ’70s.”

“Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head. “I’m not talking about those classics. I’m talking about this playlist you created for yourself with every flower-child song Olivia ever sang.”

All I can do is giggle. There’s been a lot of giggling lately.

Luke is excellent at unconventional dating. He shoves aside the constraints of my head injury and creates tailor-made quality time just for me. It knocks dinner and a movie out of the park any day of the week.

My days resemble the instructions on a shampoo bottle. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Identify possible triggers. Re-course my day in light of said triggers. Assess the pain scale. If needed, stop my day. Use appropriate medication. Eradicate headache. Reset the pain scale. Repeat.

I still can’t watch TV or look at screens of any kind. I spend most of my day in my dark bedroom, but I can venture to the kitchen or living room for short stints without sensory overload causing a headache.

Paying attention to triggers—more than that, understanding how my body reacts to each trigger—is imperative. On several occasions, however, I’ve allowed too much exposure to trigger elements and ended the day curled up in bed, appreciating the benefits of strong migraine medications.

The learning curve is steep.

The result is that Luke brings his dates to me. And he is proving himself to be thoughtful, creative, and none too playful.

Tonight’s date is in my room on the Lovesac.

He insisted on purchasing the monstrous piece of furniture, if you can call it that, declaring that no well-respected 1970s throwback room could exist without a beanbag. It’s big enough for two adults and is so incredibly comfortable, I can’t bring myself to protest. Even if we did have to rearrange my room to fit the rest of my belongings. Good thing I’m becoming more accustomed to casual wear. Maneuvering around on this cozy beast is easier in jeans and sweaters than it would have been in my skirts and heels.