Page 8 of Light Up The Night
"I know a good optometrist," I tell him. "I will provide you with his number."
Silence follows this.
And then Riley cackles, laughing as if I had told some great joke. "Aw, man, Cadence. You're funny. I have perfect vision, I'll have you know. I also happen to be a connoisseur of beautiful women, so my opinion should hold weight." He looks at me expectantly, perhaps waiting for me to join him in laughter. "Whoa, hold up. Youwerejoking, weren't you? About the optometrist?”
"I am not well-known for my sense of humor."
His entire demeanor changes, then. He seems to soften. To become warm. He leans toward me. "Good fuckin' god, woman, do you really not know how beautiful you are? How on God's green earth is that even possible?"
"I do not know," I whisper. "Perhaps you are mistaken."
"Not a fuckin' chance."
I look at him, searching the planes and angles of his handsome face. I note the way his eyes seem fixed on my mouth, and I wish I were brave enough to ask what that means.
Alas, I am not, so I languish in humiliating ignorance.
He abruptly shoots to his feet, and his hand scrapes through his hair, messing it up even more. For reasons I cannot begin tofathom, the messier his hair gets, the more attractive I find him. Some silly, immature, irrational part of my brain wants to bury my hands in his hair and make it messier and messier, just to see if there is a direct, linear relationship between the messiness of his hair and the degree of his attractiveness.
It is the thought of an irrational mind, and I push it away.
It is impossible.
He yanks at the knot of his tie, ripping it off and hurling it onto the couch violently, and then unbuttons his shirt with a deep gasp, as if he has been asphyxiating.
"Fuck," he mutters—I get the impression I am not supposed to hear this. "Get a goddamn grip, asshole."
When he turns back to me, even I, with my limited understanding of how the emotions of others show on their faces, can tell he is…distraught. Perhaps "haunted" is the better word. "Let's get you home, huh?"
I swallow hard. "Well, Chicago is home. I am not sure that it is feasible or responsible to leave for Chicago at this time of night."
"Shit, you said that, didn't you? Um, just out of curiosity, what was your plan? If your friends or whoever, the Crenshaws, did pony up the cash for your trip? Where were you going to go?"
"They are friends of my parents. My original plan was to spend the night in their guest room. It was arranged. But, as I said, I very foolishly allowed my emotions to overrule my better sense, and I walked away."
"Those assholes shouldn't have let you. No way in fuck you shoulda been wandering down the highway alone at night like that."
“It was not night when I left, it was late evening."
"Point stands." He remains some distance away from me, as if suddenly unable to handle being in proximity to me, for reasons which are quite murky, as with everything else to dowith this utterly perplexing man. "So, look. This time of year, the hotels and motels in town are all booked. I ain't lettin' you wander around by yourself, either. Three Rivers is safe, but crime happens everywhere. You're staying here. I'll take the couch—I've passed out on it many a time. You'll take my bed. Just gimme a minute to change the sheets for you. Sit tight, okay?"
"I am assuredly overstaying my welcome. You have been most hospitable, Riley, but I cannot take your bed."
He comes over to me, drops to his knees in front of me. Rests his hands on my legs, as if he has all the right in the world to touch me, which he does not. Yet, I let him. I cannot breathe when he touches me, yet I let him.
I do not know why.
"Cadence. You assuredlycantake my bed. You can lock the door—the lock ain't the kind that can be popped easily, either. It's late. You've had what sounds like a hell of a fuckin' day. You'd be doin' me a favor."
I shake my head. "That is irrational.Mystaying withyoucannot be considered a favor toyou.”
"Sure, it can. If you left, I'd be up all night worrying about you.” He squeezes my knees, and I struggle to draw a breath as a chaos of sensations and emotions boils inside me, overwhelming me. "Please stay? You’re safe here, I promise."
I examine myself: worn out and exhausted. Aching, agony-riddled feet. Emotionally depleted. Mentally drained.
"There really isn't anywhere else to go?"
He shakes his head. "Not really. Not close, and not at this time of night.”
