“Maybe stop eavesdropping on conversations—”
“Yeah, you’re one to talk,” he says, resting his head on my shoulder.
“How much did you hear?”
“Probably too much,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I don’t care what you do for a living. I really don’t. As long as you’re happy and safe, I’m good. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about. I just want to be with you.”
“I can’t talk about my job and you can’t tell other people.” I pause for a second. “It’s a safety thing.”
“I won’t say a word to anyone,” he says, taking my face in his hands. “The last thing I want is to put you in danger. Just the opposite, I want to protect you from everyone and everything.”
“Can you handle me not sharing work stuff with you? Most people can’t and I get it.”
“Seriously, I don’t care about your work. That’s not who you are any more than baseball is who I am.”
“I don’t know,” I say, laying my head back on his shoulder. “Sometimes I think my work is all I am.”
“That’s not at all true. What we do for a living, where we live—that’s all demographic bullshit. It doesn’t have a thing to do with who we are.”
“You don’t know me very well—”
“Says who?” he says, kissing the top of my head. “I know a lot about you. For instance, I know that you get combative when you have low blood sugar. I know that you love bacon more than you love most people. I know that you’re scared of sharks, but only at night. I know that you’re adorably shy sometimes and other times you’re the boldest person I’ve ever met. And I know that you’re ticklish inside your left thigh, but not your right.”
“Stop,” I say as he starts stroking the inside of my left thigh. “Stop! You’re going to get me all horny again.”
“Yeah, well, welcome to the party. I’ve pretty much been here all morning.”
* * *