Page 21 of A Fighting Chance

“The funny thing is, I live in a strange paradox. Almost as soon as my ex broke off our engagement, I felt relief. Because I’m quite sure we didn’t really love each other. Not the way we should have—or needed to. So, maybe I was never wounded? Another part of me wonders if we ever truly heal from those types of wounds. Perhaps we always carry them. I wonder sometimes if I’m meant to exist both eternally wounded but also never actually wounded. Perhaps having never been wounded is my wound. It’s a hard revelation in love,” he says, his eyes staring off into the flames of the fire. The light dances on his face, the glow flickering in his eyes in such a way that I don’t know if I’m more captivated by his face or his words.

“I see,” I say. And I do. But not wanting to offer so much of myself I ask, “So, when you’re done healing, you’ll move out?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I’ll fall in love with a good woman and she’ll want to be here with me. Maybe Nan and Paw will accept her as they’ve accepted me,” he says.

I don’t like this answer—or the jealous feelings it’s stirring within me. The thought of some woman here, in my childhood home, with my grandparents. It almost feels like she’d be in my place. Not inmy placeas Gentry’s woman because I’m not, but…in other ways. I can’t even make sense of my own emotions on the topic at this point.

“And you’ll have your little babies running around the farm?” I ask, teasing.

His eyes smile before his mouth does. “I’d like that,” he says, looking me in the eyes.

I look away from him and toward the fire, tucking my hair behind my ear. I’ve never personally given thought to whether I want kids, but Gentry seems like the fatherly type. I can picture it. A toddler at his ankle, another thrust upon his shoulder. The thought warms me, and I nuzzle deeper into the bean bag chair.

Silence falls over us for a few minutes as we both stare into the flames, mesmerized by their ability to be both a beautiful thing and a dangerous thing.

I think that’s how I see Gentry, too.

And mysterious.

He is, by all accounts, a stranger. It’s not like I know a lot about him. I’ve been here for twenty-four hours, yet this whole scene is playing out in my head and it’s sort of insane.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks quietly, gently startling me from my train of thought.

“Yes, please,” I say.

He wiggles up from his seat and walks to a small bar cart next to his window. I hear the clinking of fragile glasses as he pours something for us. He steps back across the floor and holds a glass in front of me.

I take it from him, eyeing the liquid. “What is it?”

“Just try it,” he encourages.

I smell it. It doesn’t smell like whiskey, which is a good thing because that, I don’t like. I put the glass to my mouth and take a small sip. It’s good, smooth. I lick my bottom lip. “I like this,” I say. I take another sip, this time larger, licking my lips again when I pull the glass away.

“You’re going to have to stop doing that,” he says.

I look up at him, confused. “Drinking?” I ask, shifting my eyes from left to right.

“Licking your lips,” he says. “I have sweatpants on, for Christ’s sake.”

I nearly spit my drink back into my glass, covering my mouth with the back of my hand to prevent doing so. I feel the heat caused by his words and the liquor in my chest, sure I’m beginning to turn red. “I’m sorry,” I say, choking down my drink and clearing my throat. I look over to him then and his face doesn’t betray his thoughts. His eyes are heavy, the desire palpable. My hand reaches for my throat instinctively, though I’m not sure why.

“Don’t be sorry. Just let me know if you need any help next time,” he teases, his voice smooth and wanting.

I press my eyes closed and shake my head. “Stop that.” I try to keep my tone light and dismissive. My hand extends beyond the bean bag chair to set my glass on the floor, but it causes me to nearly topple over. I find myself attempting to shift my weight back and catch myself with my hands at the same time, but the effort is futile.

It’s also unnecessary, because Gentry has somehow wrapped an arm around me and carefully helped me back into a sitting position. I can feel his warm hand on my side—just underneath my breast—and it causes me to shudder. I start to wonder what his hands will feel like on me, all over me, without the barrier of clothing between us.

NO.

STOP.

STOP THAT.

I’m yelling at myself internally now because clearly the alcohol is making me think things. Dirty things. It isn’t me. I’m certainly not thinking about those things. It’s the warm alcohol coursing through my veins, causing temporary insanity. I’m a lightweight in truth and between whatever he gave me to drink and the saké earlier, I’m feeling very good right now.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, thank you. Sorry,” I say.

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