Page 74 of Look, Don't Touch

“She’s everything, Hailey.”

I snap to face him. He’s standing by the table still as death. “Then why?—”

Arlo moves with speed and purpose I’ve never seen, stalking forward until my back hits the cold glass. It seeps through the silk of my blouse. “Haven't you figured it out by now?”

I see her walls fly up. It moves with her hands. They lift hard and fast over her chest as if her dragon isn’t enough to keep out what’s coming.

It’s not.

But she is.

I see myself in her panicked gaze and quaking frame. I see myself in the fear, shrinking her back to become one with the wall.

My feet root to the carpet before I reach her. Literally. Metaphorically.

Four feet and a chasm of trauma separate us.

I’ve pushed too hard. Said too much. Too soon.

“I’m sorry.” I take a step back and straighten. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Thank you for today. I’ll show myself out.”

Something is going on behind her bright eyes, but I can’t discern a thought. Her hands fall to her sides.

A few days ago, hell, a few hours ago, the thought of someone hugging me, even her, would have sent me running. Now, I’d give anything for her to open her arms wide and let me in. Let me back in. I’d lost my shit this afternoon, and I’d found something earth-shattering in her arms. Comfort.

“Goodbye, Hailey.” I fill myself with one last look.

Her bloodshot eyes. Her red cheeks and swollen lips. Her hair spills wildly behind her shoulders. Her tattoo peeking out from behind the forgotten last button. Then I turn and head for the door.

“Lock it behind me,” I call over my shoulder.

She doesn’t respond, but I’m sure she’ll comply.

My footfalls echo in the wood-encased hallway. It’s a shock to hear them. They’re not measured because I feel safe around her. I feel safe because of her. I grip the doorknob and squeeze. Everything inside me that usually screams at me to run, to get away, is bellowing the opposite.

Stay.

I turn the knob and prepare to heave myself out. It’s what she needs right now.

“Wait.” Her voice is small and tentative. Nothing like her.

My forehead presses against the cool wood of the door. I pull in a deep breath like she taught me and slowly let it out.

“I’ll be your surrogate.”

I jerk upright and look at her. “My what?”

She takes a step into the corridor, and I hold the knob to keep from rushing her again.

“Your sexual surrogate.” She takes another step. Her shoulders slowly roll back, and her chin rises. “I’ll help you work through your issues with touch so you can be with the woman you love.”

Love.

Is that what I feel for her?

For the past year, I’ve thought of her as my obsession.

Obsession is too tame a word.

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