Page 4 of Covert
Sure, I avoid women like the plague, but my anxiety around women has settled into a low, general hum. But Nikki? Leaves my heart racing and ants crawling under my skin.
And I know exactly why.
So, when I come out of the bathroom and find her just... there... I start to shake. I clench my fists and press them against my thighs. My eyes dart around the entire room, looking for a witness, or an escape, or a lifeline, but Axel's got his back to the bathroom and is completely unaware, and Maddox is gone.
She folds her arms across her chest and pops a hip, looking less than pleased with me.
"Why do you hate women?"
I shift my weight uncomfortably and push my shoulders forward to make myself smaller. I'm six-six and two hundred and fifty pounds. I know how I look.
I open and close my mouth a handful of times, but nothing comes out. Why can't she just leave me alone? Leave the big, dumb guy alone so I can go about my life trying to be invisible.
She drops her arms and sighs. "Look, I can tell I'm triggering for you. I just want to understandwhattriggers you so I can fix things, and you can be more comfortable around me. Is it me being near you? Looking at you? Talking to you? I can't help if I don't understand."
That eases some of the ants under my skin. I stare at her for way longer than is appropriate.
"Want me to grab a couple of coffees, and you can explain? Or is it just me in general? I don't know how to change that." She looks down her body, arms splayed wide, as if she could find something in herself to change. Except there's nothing I would change about her. She's perfect. Small, delicate, feminine, and so achingly beautiful. It's me who is broken.
Fear loosens its grip on my stomach. She wants to know how to make me feel more comfortable, when it's her who should be feeling uncomfortable with me. I'm six-foot-six and two-hundred and sixty pounds. She's tiny. I'd guess maybe five-two? A hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet? I feel like both of my hands could encase her entire waist.
I'm a monster who could crush her, but instead of being afraid of me, she's asking what she can do to be less frightening tome. I let that thought sink in slowly, as my body lowers its fight-or-flight response. She'd really change things to make me more comfortable in my own job.
I still don't trust her, but her perceived thoughtfulness has eased a bit of my discomfort. I'm just not sure how much I can trust it, or if this is just another trap.
I nod. "Coffee, but in a public place."
She smiles brightly, tipping up on her toes. "You're free for the next hour. Wanna walk to Jammin' Javas?"
I look at Axel. This is a bad idea, isn't it? We'd be alone on the walk, but we'd be in public. It might be nice to talk to someone about it. The guys know some of what happened to me, but they don't talk about it.They let me live in my miserable little anti-woman box and don't acknowledge what happened.
Can I trust her, though? Trust her enough to tell her everything?
She wants to know. Leana never pushed me, just accepted me the way that I am. Broken.
It's just a coffee.
I nod again and follow her to the front desk, where she grabs her oversized bag. She shouts to Axel that we're headed out, and I catch the surprised look on his face when he sees me trailing after the tiny woman. I keep three feet of distance between us as we walk the short block to the cafe.
We order and pay separately.
"Which table would you be more comfortable at?" she asks as we step back out to the sidewalk. I appreciate that she's letting me make the choice. It's not something a normal person would think to ask, which makes me wonder if she doesn't already know about my story, or maybe has a past of her own.
I pick the furthest one. It's private enough that we can have this conversation, but two men and a woman are facing our direction and can act as witnesses. I hope.
She even lets me pick which seat and then asks which one she can sit in. I point to the one directly in front of me and the furthest from me.
We sip our coffee and simply stare at each other for a little while. I'm mentally thumbing through my story, trying to figure out where to start and how much to say, what pieces of information I can share, and which ones feel too vulnerable.
And for a while, she gives me space to work through it.
But when I've struggled for too long, she steps in. "You don't hate women; you're terrified of them. So, clearly, a woman did something terrible to you. Do you want to start there?"
Yeah, I can explain that in one sentence. And then she can ask me questions if she wants to know more, and I can decide which questions I want to answer.
I nod.
"I was in foster care when a fellow foster sister accused me of rape."
