Page 4 of My Heart to Find

But he wasn’t.

Still, at least she’shadrelationships.

I haven’t. Not one. I’m twenty-five and I’ve never been kissed—even if at several points on that retreat, I’d thought that Damien and I would. But we were both nervous, both cautiously dancing around each other, trying to figure each other out.

My eyes linger on Damien as he walks away. I breathe a sigh of relief. He didn’t see me.

CHAPTER TWO

Damien

“HI EVERYONE,” I SAY, and my voice catches a bit. Shoot, I sound nervous. So much for the confident tone I practiced on the drive to the airport—or on the plane, much to the amusement of the elderly couple next to me. But I explained to them where I was going and by the end of the flight they seemed more invested in making me appear like I wasn’t anxious than I was. “Well, I’m Damien. Damien Noelle.”

I suppress a smile. Roger from football told me to never introduce myself with my last name, not when I’m trying to meet girls as I’ve got a last name that sounds girlie, he says.

“And I’m a dog-walker,” I finish.

The two women sitting together on the other side of the room make simpering noises.

“Wonderful,” Mrs. Mitchell says. She’s the organizer. A small, stout woman with a red face who greeted me with the warmest hug imaginable the moment I arrived. I half wondered if she had radiators under her jacket.

We’re in a large conference room of the hotel, and this is the introductory session for all of those on this retreat. I’d thought it would be a bit tacky at first, and maybe it is, but it’s nice to be around other people who get what being ace is like. Before today’s introductory session, I got chatting to a couple of the guys and they seemed cool enough. One of them says there’s a table tennis table outside, overlooking the sea, and a bunch of us are going to meet for a game later.

I look at the two girls opposite. One’s got black hair and one’s a brunette with subtle honey highlights. The brunette keeps looking over my way. And she’s cute. I can see that immediately. She laughs a lot with her friend, and I find myself wondering if they’d like to play table tennis too. They seem friendly.

“And would you like to tell us a bit more about you?” Mrs. Mitchell prompts.

“Of course.” I clear my throat. Getting distracted already—that happens a lot. I like observing people, especially interesting people. Any kind of person, really. People I’d want to be friends with. People I’d want to avoid. People are just so fascinating.

“So, I’m probably demisexual,” I say, because I assume that is what she means by her question. Now I wonder if volunteering to go first with introductions was wise. “I mean, I think I am demi?” Oh, God, I can feel myself panicking—and I always do, always worry that I’m using the words incorrectly or something. “I mean... I think so? Like, that’s probably the word that best describes me, though sometimes I think gray might be better. But then I get all worried that I’ve been using the wrong one—even if demi does seem right at times.”

“Hey, that’s perfectly valid,” Mrs. Mitchell says, “labels can and do change. It’s not a cut-and-dried thing.” She smiles. “And how about a boring fact about you?”

“A boring fact about me?” I look around, from face to face, all focused on me. And I can’t think of a single thing. Oh, God, I’m so boring I don’t even have a boring fact. I look down at my feet. “I’m wearing shoes that need repairing,” I blurt out. “The left one, it’s got a hole in it. But it’s my favorite pair.”

There are soft murmurs all around, and then Mrs. Mitchell is clapping her hands and everyone else tentatively joins in, before the man next to me is asked to go next. Apparently, we’re going clockwise around the circle now.

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