Page 55 of Again with Feeling

Through punched-out gasps, Bobby said, “I saw the gun. I got there. Saw that gun. And he was. He was pointing it. Right at you. And—”

He stopped to suck in air.

I shushed him. “It’s okay. We were both scared.”

But Bobby shook his head. “Not okay. Want to. Tell you. Need to—”

He had to stop again to suck in air.

“How about I tell you something?” I asked. “How about I tell you something instead, and then, later, when you’re feeling better, you can tell me?”

He didn’t answer. He was taking those thin, horrible breaths. But he didn’t try to speak again, so I took that as a yes.

As I rubbed his back some more, I thought about what to say. The cleverest way. The most poetic way. The most powerful, heartfelt way.

But, since I’d already been doing such a great job tonight, all that came out was “I love you.”

Bobby seemed to get smaller, shoulders shrinking, pressing his head into his hands.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “No, actually, you know what? I’m not sorry. Well, I’m sorry it took me so long, I guess, but I’m not sorry for telling you.” I waited for the waves of throat-clenching panic, the lightheadedness, the vertigo. But instead, I felt…not calm, but shocked into something else. Detached, maybe, like the night’s events had left me partially dissociated, and I waswatching myself in slow motion as I staged the single most impressive self-destruction sequence in history. “I’m sorry if you didn’t want to hear that, or if it makes your life complicated, or if it’s going to make you have another panic attack, Bobby. I am. But I had to tell you. Tonight, there was this moment where I thought you might be dead—” And now it did come—not my anxiety, not my constant indecisiveness, but terror. It was a physical sensation, sharp and unyielding, like a knife being forced into my chest. “Bobby, I thought you weredead.”

He didn’t move. The blanket whispered softly against his clothes; he was trembling, I realized, and his breathing was ragged and high.

“All I could think,” I said, “all I’ve been able to think ever since I saw how close that shot came to you, is what if? What if I’d lost you? What if I never got to see you again, or talk to you until you told me you really had to go to work now, or explain the entire plot of a nine-book mystery series I’m never going to write?” I had to swallow. The numbness still gave me some sense of distance from myself, and I was starting to wonder if my judgment was impaired—if tomorrow, when I was the same old neurotic Dash again, I would realize I’d made a terrible mistake. But I kept going. I had to keep going. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot the last few days. Because of Vivienne and Jane. And Richard and Neil. God, you don’t even know—I’ll have to tell you all about it. The point is, I look at them, and I look at what they never got to have. Jane never got what she wanted because Vivienne was selfish, because she was worried about her career and her reputation, but most of all, because she was afraid. Afraid to take a risk. And Richard was the same way, right up until the end. Neil said after Richard was gone, there wasn’t anybody else, and I’ve been thinking about that too. If you were gone. If I lost you.”

Emergency lights bobbed and spun. Bobby didn’t look at me. He still didn’t say anything.

“So, I’ve been thinking, what if I never got to tell you that you’re strong, and you’re sweet, and maybe most importantly, you’re kind? What if I never got to tell you all the reasons I love you? I love that you’re patient with me. I love your big, goofy smile. I love that you care if I’m warm enough or if I’m comfortable or if I’ve had enough coffee for one day. I love that you’re my friend, Bobby, because youaremy friend. You’re the first person I think about, you know that? With everything. When I see something onCrime Cats, I want to text it to you. When I’m going to bed, I remember some dumb thing I did that almost made you smile. When I’m reading in the billiard room now, I look over and expect to see you lying on the floor, ear buds in, listening to your music. When Indira makes a really good cake.”

His hands moved restlessly over his face. I could hear his breath whistling in his throat. The smell of the asphalt, releasing its lingering warmth from the day, wafted up to us.

Rubbing his back, I said, “I promise I’m almost done, and I’ll leave you alone. I just—I just needed you to know. I came here because I wasn’t in love with Hugo, but also because I needed to figure myself out. I wasn’t even sure love was real, and if it was, I didn’t know if I’d ever recognize it when I felt it. I’m such a mess, Bobby. I can’t decide who my fictional detective is going to be. I freak out about social situations with even the tiniest bit of ambiguity. For heaven’s sake, you’ve seen how long it takes me just to pick a flavor of ice cream.” I took a breath. “Lawrence Block has one of his characters say, ‘Whatever love means, it’s how I feel about you,’ and that’s it. That’s exactly it. This is love, what I feel for you. It’s like there isn’t room inside me for anything else. This is it, and it’s real, and it’s everything I wanted, and I love you so much that I can’t—I can’t even put itinto words, really. And it makes me so happy that it’s you. So, I wanted to thank you for giving me this, because it couldn’t have been anybody else. And I wanted to tell you how much you mean to me. I don’t want to die without telling you. And I know this is crazy, and maybe it feels like it’s coming out of left field because we’ve never gone on a date or kissed or done anything the way people say you’re supposed to do it. But none of that matters. What matters is I love you. I love you, Bobby.”

A shiver worked its way down Bobby’s broad back. He sat up so suddenly that I thought maybe the panic attack had finally arrived in full. When he turned to face me, his eyes were wet, and he was gulping air. And this, that detached part of me knew, was Bobby: to the very last, still fighting for control.

“It’s okay,” I said, and I was surprised to find myself smiling. “You don’t have to say anything. I know it’s—it’s hard for you to talk about this kind of stuff, and Keme’s right: not everyone has to put their feelings into words the way I do. There are so many ways you let me know I’m your friend and you care about me, so many things you do for me, without ever saying anything. So, I’m not asking you to say anything or do anything or change anything. I just wanted you to know how I feel. If you don’t feel the same way, that’s okay. If you never want to talk about this again, that’s okay too. If we’re just going to be friends forever, it would still be the best thing that ever happened to me. But please don’t die, Bobby—like, ever. For one thing, there wouldn’t be anyone to defend me, and Keme would definitely make me do pull-ups. And I immediately regret making a joke, but I think I am, uh, suddenly super nervous.”

And I was. At that exact moment, it all caught up to me: everything I’d said, all the rambling, disjointed, adolescent sentiments that sounded like they’d been copyedited out of an issue ofTeen Vogue. That sense of detachment popped like abubble, and heat rushed into my face. My head suddenly felt like it was filled with bees.

And Bobby was still staring at me. The rich, earthy gold of his eyes shone like glass behind the sheen of tears. His pupils were huge. His lips were parted, and his chest fell and rose in painful-looking hitches. And I knew, without anyone having to tell me. What had happened. He wasn’t going to say anything. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. The distress in his expression told me that whether Bobby felt the same way I did, or he simply wanted to tell me to screw off, he just couldn’t do it. He had told me once, what seemed like a long time ago, that when he tried to talk about the things that mattered most to him, terror made it feel like knives were spinning in his gut. And even through my embarrassment, my heart hurt for him, because he was Bobby, and I did love him.

“I’ll leave you alone,” I said, sliding to the edge of the tailgate. “Do you want me to get the paramedic—”

He lunged toward me, the movement jerky and broken, without any of his usual grace. His hands caught my head: fingers curling along my neck, palms settled at my jawline, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. He had calluses from all that surfing, and the slight roughness of his hands startled a breath out of me. I caught a whiff of that clean, sporty scent that at this point I wassurehad to be his deodorant, and then he pulled me to him and kissed me.

I won’t go on and on about it. I mean, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.

But if you’ve ever been kissed, really kissed, by someone you want in all the ways it’s possible to want someone, then you know.

(Okay, I’ll saythis: toe-curling doesn’t even begin to describe it.)

When he released me, he looked punch drunk, barely able to keep himself upright as he took deep, uneven breaths. But to be fair, I probably looked pretty much the same.

And then that big, beautiful, goofy smile slipped out. A little uncertain, maybe. But real.

My grin was so big it hurt my cheeks. And because I am perpetually, inescapably, Dashiell Dawson Dane, I heard myself say, “See? Talking is overrated.”

Chapter 19

---