For The One(63)

“Twenty-one—”

“Twenty-one people in the room.”

He hesitated. “The room is starting to feel full.”

“Good…now focus. I want you to breathe.”

“I have been. I’d pass out if I didn’t.” Or he’d pass out from me clobbering him, which I was kind of wanting to do.

“No, breathe in the special way, the good way—”

“The right way?”

“Yeah, picture yourself in this room with these twenty-one other people…”

“Twenty other people.”

“You just told me there were twenty-one people in the room.” Fuck, this was starting to sound like an Abbot and Costello comedy routine.

“There are. Me and twenty other people.”

I opened my eyes and blew out a breath, flopping on my back to stare up at the ceiling. “This isn’t working.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Are you angry with me?”

Deep breaths. In with the good, out with the bad. “No. I’m just frustrated. This obviously isn’t going to work with your…literal way of thinking. We’ll have to figure out something else that will work for you.”

“It’s okay. People have told me that I’m annoying before.”

“I’m not going to tell you that you’re annoying.”

He stiffened. “You think I’m a lost cause.”

I tilted my head to the side and looked at him. “I don’t. I never give up on people that easily. I’m a fighter, remember? I was born in the middle of a war.” I patted the mat. “Come lie down here next to me. Let’s try something else.”

He slowly complied until he was lying beside me on the mat. I could smell him again—that clean, masculine smell. It reminded me of the hot kisses we’d shared the other night on my bed.

I swallowed, suddenly feeling that sexual tension return, like a fist tightening just below my navel bringing a sweet ache. Maybe I needed to do a little grounding and centering myself. This guy was getting me all kinds of riled up—in more ways than one.

I turned to face him, bending my arm at the elbow to rest my head in my hand. “What is it about crowds that makes you upset? Is there a story behind it?”

He turned his head to look at me, but when his eyes met mine, he rolled back to look at the ceiling. “When I was in elementary school, I used to hate recess because of all the kids. They would pick on me. Surround me.”

My mouth gaped in shock. “They bullied you? Why was that allowed?”

“They never hit me or hurt me—not then. They liked to freak me out, though. They’d stand in a circle all around me and yell, chanting different things. They thought it was funny to watch me get disoriented. When any adults asked what was happening, they’d say we were all playing a game—that I was fine with it. I used to have panic attacks whenever the bell rang and the teacher insisted I go outside for recess.”

There was a sick feeling building inside me as I listened to his story, delivered with almost dispassionate neutrality—as if he were telling me about a story he’d read in the newspaper. I blinked, my eyes stinging as I felt that pain and confusion of a child trying to sort things out, overwhelmed by all the sensory input being forced on him. In a way, I could relate, having started first grade here in the US without speaking a word of English. It had been overwhelming for me, isolating. And I remembered months of panic and uncertainty. But it had faded as I’d adapted. I’d had the skills to pick up the language quickly. William hadn’t been as fortunate.

“Shit, that’s horrible,” I said, my voice trembling. He continued to stare up at the ceiling but said nothing in response. On impulse, I reached out and touched his arm. “Hey…you’re here now… not there.”

He turned and looked at me, and this time he didn’t pull his gaze away. It was almost as if he was unaware that his eyes were staring straight into mine. But I was aware of it and my breathing froze. Our connection sizzled silently in the space between us. Tears sprang to my eyes as I stared deep into that dark reflection of raw vulnerability, with a strong touch of self-loathing.

William was pure—and not just sexually so. His feelings, emotions, perceptions. Yet it seemed that all the darkness he had seen and experienced, he’d internalized to somehow be his fault. This warped logic was part of the misplaced burden he’d hefted onto his shoulders. And in this moment, I could tell he was troubled.

I placed my hand on his whisker-rough cheek. “They were wrong, what they did. You couldn’t help your reactions. You are not lesser than them.”