Jaime raises an eyebrow. "You pretty much flashed me." He stands with his weight on one foot, so that his narrow hips are tilted at an angle. He's not big - not bulky in the shoulders like Justin was - but his forearms are solid and when he danced with me I felt his gentle strength.
"I know," I say. "I'm sorry. I do these things without thinking."
He nods, swallows. There's a tiny shaving cut just above his collar. I know because I spent several hours staring at it, knowing that if I looked into his frightened eyes I'd lose my nerve. And that would be it. Back to square one. Amber, you can't be trusted to take care of yourself. Back to agoraphobia and Dr. Stahl, back to wrecking my lungs out of sheer boredom and fear.
"Is that part of it?" he asks, so polite, so good. "Your mental...problems, I mean."
"No," I say. "I just have really shitty impulse control. Always have."
He nods again. It was no wonder I couldn't look in his eyes on the road. They're so big and brown. If I'd met those long-lashed eyes once too often I'd feel like I was holding a gun on Bambi.
"You want to get something to eat?" I ask. I'm starting to feel shaky and blood-sugary, and I think the only remotely edible thing in the vicinity is a half-eaten packet of breath mints in my purse. And I have no idea how long they've been in there.
He folds his arms. "Yeah. I'm starving. You want me to go get something?"
"No," I say. "We'll go somewhere. Somewhere nice. It's the least I can do."
Jaime doesn't look convinced. "Not too nice," he says. "I'm still in uniform. Anyway, can you handle that? Going out to eat in public?"
I shrug. "Sure. I think so." I'm not sure at all, but I feel safer here than I did in L.A. The moment I got out of the gate and saw that the paparazzi had spotted me I knew I had to run. Deep down I'd always known they were there, but Dr. Stahl kept me happily snowed with psychiatric bullshit. You're in a safe space, Amber. Nobody is judging you.
Yeah. Until I set foot outside my own front door.
"Right," says Jaime. "You held a gun on me for like two hours, so..."
I flop down on the couch. "I’m sorry,” I say. “If it’s any consolation, it wasn’t loaded.”
This time he doesn't smile. "Are you going to tell me even the first thing that's going on with you? Because this? This is stupid. I can't do this - whatever this is - unless you give me something to work with. And don't lie to me. Are you going to call your Dad or aren't you?"
We've come this far. But what if I'm wrong? What if he's just waiting for the right time to call someone - tell them where Amber Gillespie is hiding out? How much does he make, anyway? It's only when I'm trying to weigh up the possibility of money as a motivating force that I realize just how cloistered I am. I think I've been through hell, and maybe I have, but it could have been worse, couldn't it? I'm spoilt and stupid. And he's just an ordinary guy. A nice guy, by all appearances.
I shake my head slowly. He sighs.
"Please," I say. "Just hear me out. I'll order us something to eat."
"Fine. I don't suppose it occurred to you that I might be in trouble too?"
"I'm sorry," I start to say, but he holds up a hand.
"Forget it, Amber. Which way to the bathroom?"
I point the way and he stomps off. I hate that he's right - it was so selfish of me to bring him here, but I couldn't stand to be alone. I want to make it up to him, but what happens if I make a pass and get rebuffed again? Can I take that? Am I strong enough?
Jesus, I am a monster of self-obsession. I open the drawer under the telephone table, searching for take-out menus. My heart twists when I spot a Thai menu. They made a chicken soup I loved, so fragrant with lemongrass and ginger that you were too busy reveling in the flavors to realize exactly how fiery it was - a cumulative heat that always left me with streaming eyes as I gulped down the dregs of the cup. Our favorites are marked in his handwriting, underlines and asterisks in red pen.
"How do you like Chinese?" I ask, when he comes back in.
He shrugs. "Sure. Do I get to call my family or not? Because they're probably wondering why I didn't come home for dinner."
I've made such a mess of everything. I nod and he wanders into the next room. I hear him talking to someone named Beca. Am I even dumber than I look? I threw myself at him last night without even asking if he had a girlfriend.
"...no. Something came up at work. Don't worry. I'm well looked after...yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I would have called earlier but it was just...pffft...you know. Manic."
It took me this much to even pronounce his name properly. Hi-may - ending on that supplicant sound you only get with the soft e.