Page 48 of Tattered and Torn

Chapter 15 – John

I don’t know what possessed me to stay. I guess it’s because I don’t want the evening to end. I like Gabrielle. I like being around her. She’s different from a lot of the women I know. She’s straight-forward and to the point. She doesn’t play games. She’s not coy. She’s not a flirt. She’s the kind of woman who’s worth taking a chance on.

For me, that means taking a big chance.

I haven’t lowered my guard around a woman in a long time. And to be honest, I’m not sure I can do it now, not even with her. There’s just so much at stake. I hate to admit it, even to myself, but my self-confidence has really taken a hit over the past few years. When I’m with a woman, I feel like I’m a freak. Someone to gawk at. Maybe this is my own insecurity talking. Maybe it’s all in my head. But whatever the reason, it’s different with Gabrielle. She treats me like I’m just any other man.

She makes me forget I’m damaged.

Gabrielle motions me in and shuts the door. “Come on in, then. I’m afraid I have only wine and beer to offer you. Or a soft drink. I don’t have any liquor. I’m still stocking my pantry.”

“A soft drink would be great. Thanks.” I think right now would be a really bad time for me to drink alcohol.

It smells good in here, faintly of fresh baked cookies. Maybe cinnamon or vanilla. I don’t know if it’s because she’s been baking or if it’s air freshener, but regardless, it smells nice.

She flips on a light switch just inside the door, and two lamps in the living room turn on. I watch her walk over to the kitchen, where she flips another couple of switches. A light comes on over the kitchen island, as well as overhead lights.

“They did a good job on your apartment,” I say. “It’s nice.”

Gabrielle nods. “I love it. I wasn’t expecting something this nice. Hannah’s sister Sophie oversaw the decorating, so I shouldn’t be surprised. She has great taste.” She studies me a moment. “You can take your hat off, if you want to.”

My heart slams into my ribs as my lungs seize up on me. No one’s ever asked me to do that.

She gives me the tiniest of smiles. “Make yourself at home.”

I swallow hard past the lump in my throat. “I—” She stands there patiently, just waiting for me to do decide what I’m going to do. She has no idea what she’s asking of me. Or, maybe she knows exactly what she’s asking. She’s asking me to let down my guard, to expose myself. To trust her. “I’ll have hat hair.” As stupid as that sounds, it’s the only excuse I can think of not to take it off.

She shrugs. “That’s okay. I don’t mind.”

Still, she waits. I could say no. I could turn around and walk right out that door. I could do a dozen different things, and somehow I find myself really wanting to do the one thing she’s asking of me.

It’s terrifying. And yet, somehow I find myself reaching up to grip the crown of my cowboy hat and lift it off.

She holds out her hand. “I’ll hang it up for you.”

Standing stock still, like a wild animal caught in a trap, I hand her my hat.

She hangs it on a coat rack near the door, then returns to the kitchen. “I’ll grab our drinks.”

I can’t believe I’m standing here without my hat on, my face fully exposed. She’s looking right at me as if it’s just another Tuesday, and she doesn’t care that one side of my face looks like road rash. I swallow hard and find my voice. “On second thought, I’ll have a beer.” I’m going to need something stronger than a soft drink to get me through this. Whatever this is. I’m still not sure.

She opens the fridge and grabs two bottles of Fat Tire.

“I see you’ve been studying up on Colorado beers,” I say.

Nodding, she hands me a bottle, then grabs a bottle opener from the silverware drawer. “Colorado has a vibrant culture of craft breweries.” After popping the cap off her bottle, she holds the opener aloft. “Can I open yours?”

She’s asking because my left hand—encased in a leather glove—is jammed into my front left pocket.

Shit. Now I’m backed into a corner. I can’t pop the cap off my bottle using just one hand. “That’s okay. I’ve got it.” I withdraw my hand from my pocket and take hold of the bottle so I can pop off the cap with my right hand.

“Do you have limited use of your left hand?” She asks me that matter of factly, like she’d say, the weather’s sure nice today.

Suddenly, it feels real warm in here. “No.”

“I just wondered as you keep it covered and usually out of sight.”

“It works well enough, for the most part. It’s a bit stiff because of, well, the scar tissue makes it stiff. But I can use it fine.” God, I can’t believe I’m telling her this.

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