Page 135 of Between the Lines

I grumble at my subconscious—he really needs to go back below where he belongs—because in the end, that’s the truth: despite my feelings, telling Claire what she can and can’t do is wrong.

I flick the angel-devil-combo off my shoulder this time. Right now, I don’t want to hear it. Right now, I’d rather just enjoy the fact that I have almost an entire night with Claire to myself, rather than wondering how long we can sustain a relationship with one another while my trauma is bubbling beneath the surface, threateningto spill over and drown whatever it is that we’re building together.

“Hey. You’re tense.”

Her words precede the tentative touch of her hand against mine, and my body knows to relax on some chemical level. Because despite the fact that I haven’t shared thedeepestparts of me, she does listen. She heard me when I said I didn’t like driving distracted.

“I am, a little.”

“Is it because we’re going out in public together?”

Her voice is small again, just like it was the other night when she’d told me how hard sneaking around was becoming.

I take my hand off the wheel to take her left one and place it at two-o’clock, right beneath mine.Hands on the wheel and hands on her at the same time.

“No. I’m a little tense at the thought of you driving in the dark.”

She lifts her thumb to rub against the side of my hand, quelling that thought.

“Is it because of your parents?”

I don’t know how I manage to maintain my composure and control when she brings them up as I’m driving along a Massachusetts highway. My breath stutters.

“Yes. Their accident happened on a country highway without streetlights.”

I don’t realize my shoulders have tensed again until she steals her hand from mine and gently kneads there.

“Thank you for sharing that with me.” She pauses, then, “And thank you for being concerned enough to drive."

I do something I haven’t done for as far back as my memory will go—I take my hand off the wheel while my car is in drive, going down the road at a steady fifty-five miles an hour. And I lift Claire’s hand to my lips.

The panic that I thought would ensue can’t even billow to the surface when her hand is in mine to calm the waters.

“You say ‘thank you’ a lot,” I note, changing the course of the conversation. Her hand stiffens in mine, and I take my turn to soothe her.

“Yeah I… I guess they’re right when they say that you mimic the love you never received. My parents have never told me ‘thank you.’”

I file that away for safe keeping.

Claire was in charge of the book for tonight’s high school basketball game, and as soon as the game concluded, we left. Of course, no one saw us pull up together, and since I exited as soon as the game was over, I’m certain no one of value saw her get into my car as I idled at the curb to pick her up.

We’re sitting at dinner, across from one another in a restaurant far below the standard I’d wanted for our first true date, but we’rehere. In public together. On a real date. I’m holding her hand across the dinner table, both because she once told me she likes holding hands, but also because I’ve found comfort in her touch myself. For the first time, I’m beginning to wonder if things with us can be like this forever.

“When do you plan on starting a chess club?” she asks, eyes sparkling.

“In the next week or so. I think Rocco and a few others would benefit from it.”

“Will you be teaching them all of your sick moves?”

“I have to keep a few tricks up my sleeves.”

Claire rolls her eyes, but smiles.

“Have you signed up to chaperone the winter dance?” I ask her.

“Not yet. Should I? Will I have a hot date to dance with?”

She bounces her eyebrows up and down. A smile erupts on my face at the thought of getting to dance with her again.

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