Page 6 of Defended By Love

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You have a cape? Is that a threat?”

“God no.” He tries to run a hand through his hair but stops when its gelled shell resists him. “This is not the way I imagined this going,” he mutters.

“What do you mean ‘the way you imagined’? Did you plan this? Did you collapse the building? Are you a terrorist or affiliated with a terrorist organization?” I ask, using my most intense courtroom voice.

While I’m relatively certain he’s not a terrorist, interrogating him calms me down. It’s something I’ve done a million times. It’s something I have control over. I’m good at it. It’s what I do. It brings a sense of normalcy to, not to sound like a broken record, the fact that I’m floating a hundred feet in the air.

Handsome guy winces and tugs at his spandex collar. Truthfully, it’s kind of cute.

“Can we start over?” he asks, his voice cracking again as it goes impossibly high on the last word.

Considering the fact that he’s the only thing between me and plummeting towards a crushed cranium, I’m rather disposed to keep him happy.

“I’ll allow it.”

“Awesome,” he breathes. Then, he clears his throat. “Ma’am, I’m here to save you,” he says in a deep voice that’s best suited to a voice over for the new Robin Hood movie.

I cock an eyebrow.

“Oh no. Not ma’am. No one likes being called ma’am. I know that.” He clears his throat again. “Miss, I’m here to save me.”

Save me?

I pause.

He pauses.

He reflects.

“Shit. That’s not what I meant. I’m here to save you. I’m saving you. Clearly. Look, you’re all saved.”

I pause.

He pauses.

I gesture to the positively terrifying amount of empty air below me that promises certain death.

“Oh, yeah. Don’t worry. I can fly,” he says quickly.

Obviously.

“I can’t,” I say, just in case I need to state the obvious.

He smiles. “They hang suspended how bricks cannot,” he sings. Then, he smiles wider. Like I’m supposed to understand anything about the situation whatsoever.

“I don’t know if it’s the lingering trauma of being inside a collapsing building or not, but I have no clue what that means.”

It’s blunt. I know it’s blunt. I have this book that I got as a teenager when my parents saw I had trouble making friends, it’s called Dr. Debbie’s Guide to Understanding Relationships. There’s a whole chapter about using ‘I’ statements and easing people into criticism.

Screw gentle. Tonight, I’m embracing blunt.

“Just a joke… Hitchhiker’s Guide… got turned into a musical,” he mumbles, turning his head down and away so that he’s not looking at me.

“Right. Hilarious. Anyways, if you could put me down now, that’d be great,” I say in my best please-don’t-kill-me-because-I-didn’t-find-your-song-funny voice.

“Oh no. I can’t do that.”

Fuck.

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