He readjusted me so he could see my face. "Sorry about what?"
"About . . . everything."
To my utter amazement, he laughed. "I hope you're not sorry about this," and he took one of my hands in his, "because I've been enjoying it."
"Well . . . no. Not about that."
"Or about this?" He ran his fingers slowly through my hair, moving it back from my tear-stained face. My heart beat faster.
"No."
"Or this?" With his finger under my chin, he gently raised my face as he moved his closer until our lips met. His touch was soft and warm. And very sweet. Blood pulsed forcefully from my heart to every part of me.
He pulled back and searched my face. "Well?"
I hadn't answered his question. Surprising myself, I tilted my head playfully and responded, "I'm not sure. Would you do that again, please?"
Smiling, Will carefully, deliberately took my head in his hands, moving my face so he could touch my forehead with his lips. They brushed across it from one side to the other, and back again. They sought out first one temple, then the other, and lightly kissed them. They tenderly felt and caressed my brow and tear swollen eyes. A quick touch to my nose, my chin. A pause.
I opened my eyes to search Will's, and instinctively knew what I would find. The longing in his eyes was more than I had ever allowed myself to even hope for. And I could feel that it was mirrored in my own.
As I wondered at myself, my hands went to his face, slowly following the contour of his cheekbones, his ears, his jaw and chin. My fingers roamed through his soft hair, felt his brow, his cheeks, and, finally, stroked his lips. His breathing quickened.
As his arms came around me with one hand through the hair on the back of my head, my arms slipped around his neck, easing me against him as our lips met. He moved his mouth against mine with a gentle firmness that was all the more endearing for the self-denying restraint I could sense in his movements.
When his lips released mine, I wanted more and sought them out again, holding his head with my fingers through his hair until I was finished.
As the kiss ended, he moved back to look at my face, then abruptly gathered me in a fierce hug. "Oh, Cassie, it's been so long," seemed to escape of its own volition. I didn't understand exactly what he meant, but I wasn't going to ask. He needed to hold me, and I needed to be held. All else could wait.
I don’t know how long we stayed there. "Thank you," Will, at length, murmured, moving me off his lap to sit on the bench beside him.
"For what?" I asked, settling in next to him.
"For trusting me. For letting me care about you," he responded.
"I'm sorry for not trusting you more, earlier," I ventured.
"Are we talking about your panic attack now?"
"Is that what it was?"
"Well, I'm not a psychiatrist like Dad, but I think that's probably a fair guess." He paused to think. "If you are willing, I would like to arrange a time when you could talk to Dad about it. He helps people with this kind of problem a lot. It's one of his specialties."
I hesitated, but couldn't really see a reason to turn down his offer. I had serious doubts about anyone being able to resolve the underlying cause of these "panic attacks," but could it hurt to get some help with the symptoms? "I wouldn't have to tell Mark and Gina, would I? Not to just talk to your dad? They don't really know how bad it is, and I don't want them to worry. They've been through enough with me."
"Not to just talk to him. We can see what he says and go from there. Okay?"
I hesitated again.
"Please?" he added. "It hurts me to see you suffer like that."
"It does? Why?" I asked without stopping to think about it. It was really quite surprising that I kept doing such things with him. I had never felt this free with anyone in my life. Anyone that I could remember, that is.
Will looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked, "First, shall I go ahead and set up a time with Dad?"
"Yes, please."
"Good." Will stared into the distance. He was quiet for so long that I was beginning to worry that my question had offended him somehow. I was debating whether or not to say something when he turned back to me. "So you are asking why it bothered me to see you have the panic attack?"
"Basically, yes," I answered.
"Well, in general, it bothers me when other people are afraid or in pain, or whatever. And I want to help. Mom says I was just born that way."
He inhaled deeply and watched my face intently as he slowly exhaled. "It's more than that with you, though. A lot more. This may sound strange, but I've never really dated or anything. My family has had a lot going on the last few years, especially with Mom having some serious health problems. And I needed to help out with a lot of responsibilities for a while―taking care of Melinda, the house, and so on.
"With all that, and school, there just wasn't much time for socializing. And, to be totally honest," he looked down at the hand that he was holding, "I was in no hurry to get very close to anyone. You see, I lost my best friend a few years ago, and it's been . . . hard."
"But now," he continued, looking into my eyes, "I have my best friend again, in you. And not only my best friend." He let go of my hand and touched my face. "I love you, Cassie. I'm in love with you."
We gazed into each other's eyes. I knew he was telling me the truth. I could feel it with every fiber of my being. But there was something bothering him. (Not that I could sense it, but I could see it in his face.) "What's wrong? What are you worried about?" I almost whispered.
"This has all happened so fast, and . . . ." He took both my hands and looked down at them. "I don't want you to feel like I'm pressuring you, or trying to take advantage of you or anything." His eyes found mine again. "What do you think about all this? Please tell me how you feel."
I didn't have to think. I already knew how I felt, and how strongly I felt it.
"Will, I believe I started falling in love with you the first time we met. Remember Saturday night and the swings?" He nodded, his face relaxing with relief. "But I have been horribly afraid you wouldn't react well to my . . . problem. I'm sorry I didn't trust you enough to just tell you. Forgive me."
He put both arms around me and held me close, whispering in my ear, "There's nothing to forgive. You trusted me enough to let me see.” Then he let go, and took my face between his hands.
"So, you love me?"
"Didn't I say so?" I countered playfully.
"Not in so many words."
"I love you."
"Thank you. Again." He looked back toward the football field. "You love me, but your parents aren't going to even like me if I don't get you home soon. The game is over and the parking lot is almost empty."
Will kissed me once more, took my hand, and started walking me toward his car. I sighed.
"I know," he said. "I don't want it to end, either. But we still have tomorrow, and the next day, and the next . . . . By the way, what do you want to do tomorrow? With me, I mean."
My stomach growled loudly. Oh, dear. "Excuse me."
Will grinned. "Maybe we ought to get you something to eat. Do you have a cell phone?"
I shook my head. “No.”
He pulled out his phone and offered it to me.
"Want to call and see if you can stay out a little longer?"
I smiled, still somewhat embarrassed, and took the phone. "Yes, please." Even a few more minutes with him was worth it.
Mark answered, and had no objection. On the contrary, he encouraged me to take some more time and enjoy myself. So I did. I felt so light-hearted. Almost light-headed. Will had experienced my huge weakness and, not only had he not run away screaming, he had helped me through it.
And he said he loved me. He was in love with me.
We again went to the diner near his house. This time, I got a salad and he ordered only a drink. I had some trouble eating because he again sat next to me in the booth, and I didn't want to let go of his hand in order to use both
of mine for the food. I didn't mind, though. Will seemed to get a kick out of it.
By the time we were finished and he finally drove me home, some of the muscles in my face were tired from smiling so much. I couldn't seem to stop. What a pleasant difficulty!
He pulled up in front of the house and turned off the engine. Then, he took his cell phone out and, quietly commenting, "No time like the present," pressed in a number. "Mom? Hi. Is Dad there? Thanks." There was a brief pause, during which he took my hand and kissed it. "Hey, Dad. Say, do you have any time tomorrow to talk to a friend of mine?" He listened. “Okay. Just a minute."
He turned to me. "Dad has some time tomorrow if you do."
I could feel myself getting nervous. I had forgotten about talking to his dad. "Some time in the afternoon would work, I guess. I'm getting my hair cut in the morning."
He raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.
"How about two o'clock, Dad? Thanks. I'll be home in a little while. ‘Bye." He closed his phone, then turned to me, "You're getting your hair cut?"
"And a perm." All of a sudden, I was more worried about it than I had been initially. What if he didn't like it, whether I did or not? "I―I don't have to. I just wanted to try something . . . different."
"I think it sounds great. If you want to do it, you should do it," he reassured me. He seemed to mean it. (This was getting to be a real nuisance―not being able to sense him. Someday―soon―I would figure it out.)
"If you say so."
"I do." And he chuckled. "There may be a problem, though.
Oh. "What?" I asked, hesitantly.
He reached over and stroked my cheek with the backs of his fingers, the hint of a smirk lingering around his mouth. "If it enhances your appearance very much, I may not be able to stand it." Then his expression became perfectly serious. "You are already almost unbearably lovely to me―inside and out." My heart didn't know what to do: Beat out of my chest, or stop altogether. And there was not time to consider, because he was leaning toward me, drawing my face to his. I closed my eyes and thoroughly felt his lips against mine.
And then it was over, and we were looking in each other's eyes. My smiling muscles were exercising again. So were his. "I'll get the door for you," he said, and got out of the car. He tucked my arm through his as he walked me up to the house. "What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?"
That was hard to say. I wanted to tell him the earliest time possible, but didn't know how long the hair appointment would take. "I'm not sure what time I'll be finished―with the perm and all. Could I call you?" But I didn't have his number.
"Absolutely," he replied. "But you don't have my cell number. Why don't I call you when I get home, then you’ll have it on caller I.D. That's a good enough excuse to talk to you again, isn't it?" I nodded. “What number should I call?” he asked, preparing to enter it into his phone.
“Our home phone,” and I gave the number to him.
He slipped one arm around me, lifted my chin with his other hand, and kissed me one, two, three times. Then he embraced me fully, whispering in my ear, "Talk to you in a bit." He released me, and held the storm door while I unlocked the house and walked in.
Mark and Gina must have gone to bed. All the lights were out except a lamp in the living room. I took the cordless phone from the kitchen wall, turned off the lamp and went to my room to wait, paper and pencil at hand. The phone rang almost immediately. Surely he couldn't be home already?
I quickly write down the incoming number and answered, hoping that the extension in Mark and Gina's room wouldn’t wake them. "Hello?"
"Cassie?"
"Yes?"
"This may sound silly, but I didn't want to wait any longer to hear your voice."
I giggled. It seemed an odd sound, coming from me. Felt good, though. "It may be silly, but I'm glad."
"Excellent," he replied. "Did you get my cell number?"
"Absolutely." It made me feel even more a part of Will's life somehow, knowing I had this direct line to him.
"Say, do you think you might get a cell phone any time soon?" That seemed almost like a joke to me. Mark and Gina had been trying to persuade me to carry one for a very long time.
"How about tomorrow? Mark and Gina have one they've been trying to give me for months. But I'm not sure where it is right now, and they're in bed. I'll call you with the number as soon as I get it, okay?"
"That was easy. Sure. Call me as soon as you're ready to be picked up―or earlier, if you want."
I giggled again. "Happy to." And I truly was. Me, happy? This was unusual. And inexpressibly wonderful.
"Cassie?"
"Yes?"
"I love you," he stated matter-of-factly.
"I love you, too."
"Call me any time. Please."
"Any time?"
"Yes."
"Alright." I thought quickly. "Will you do the same?"
"I was hoping you would say that." He chuckled. "Are you sure?"
"Shouldn't I be?"
"You mean after you get your cell phone, not on the home phone, right?"
Good thinking. "Oh, right." No need to again risk waking up Mark and Gina.
"So I won't be able to call you back tonight. But if, say, you had a hard time sleeping tonight and wanted to call me . . . .
"Uh-huh?"
"My cell phone will be on."
"I just may take you up on that."
"Please do. Really."
I believed him. "I believe you. I will."
"Good. Thank you. Talk to you later," he said.
"I love you, Will." Was that actually me talking? Astounding.
"Love you, too. 'Bye."
"'Bye." And I reluctantly hung up. How long should I wait to call him back? It would probably be a good idea to at least get ready for bed first, and let him get home and do the same. What time was it, anyway? Let's see. An hour? That should be plenty of time. No―too much time. A half hour? Fifteen minutes? Five? Now I was being ridiculous―and ridiculously, giddily in love. I'd get ready for bed and see.
My smile muscles were definitely going to be sore tomorrow.
Was he too good to be true, or what?
I sincerely hoped not.
.Chapter Eight
The next morning I was very tired―more so than usual. But, paradoxically, I felt more alive than ever. Because, this time, I was not tired as a result of bad dreams. It was because I had been on the phone all night with Will.
After getting ready for bed in record time, I went ahead and called him. There was so much about our relationship that was illogical, I threw logic out the window entirely and followed my heart. Unusual for me, I had to admit, but I was glad I did.
He picked up immediately. "Cassie?"
"Hi. Is this too soon?"
"Impossible. But I did just get home. Would you give me a couple of minutes, please?"
"Okay." They seemed the longest couple of minutes in my life. Finally, he was back on the phone. "Are you sure that was just a couple of minutes?" I asked him.
He laughed. "Five seconds wouldn't have been fast enough for you right now, would it?"
"Probably not." It was my turn to laugh, but quietly, so as not to wake Mark and Gina. Their room was across the hall, and the house wasn't exactly soundproof. (Was it because I didn’t want to disturb them, or because I didn’t want them to know I was talking to Will until all hours of the night? Well, in either case . . . .) "Is that alright?"
"Wouldn’t have it any other way. I'm feeling the same. So, what have you been up to since the last time we talked . . . ." And I told him. And I asked him the same question. And he told me. And we just couldn't stop talking―about this, that, and who knows what else. One topic we discussed at length was neuroscience. Will explained what it was, and that it comprehended much more than just the structure of the brain and nervous system. In fact, his interest was in furthering research regarding how the brain processes information (molecularly and biochemically); the conn
ection between those processes and behavior (behavioral neuroscience), which was, of course, closely linked with the study of neuropsychiatric disorders; and, finally, the application of these findings to the clinical sciences (physiological and psychological). In short―Will wanted to help people.
We were both fully aware that a lot of what he was talking about was over my head. But I was truly interested―though, to be honest, more in him than the subject; or, rather, in the subject because of him―and kept asking him questions. Besides, his enthusiastic curiosity was contagious. Also, in spite of the fact that he had to define basic terms and simplify concepts for me, he was endlessly patient and respectful. Not once did he indicate in even the smallest way that he was anything less than overjoyed to be giving up a whole night's sleep in exchange for expounding upon his chosen-field of expertise to a complete neophyte. Namely, me.
He would periodically ask if I didn't need to get some sleep, and I would answer, "No." I would occasionally ask him if he wasn't tired, and he would say, "Not really."
About eight o'clock, he asked, "Don't you have a hair appointment this morning?"
"Yes, but not until nine thirty."
"What time do you have to leave?"
"Probably quarter after―nine, that is."
"And how long will it take you to get ready?"
"Let's see―I'm not going to shower until after. All the little hairs after a cut, you know . . . ." Too much information? Nope. Not any more.
"Uh-huh."
"Throw on some jeans and an old shirt, shoes and socks. Probably ought to at least brush my hair. Five minutes, tops." I estimated low, of course.
"What about breakfast?"
"Waste of time."
"Cassie," he said, warningly, "you really should eat something, especially after being up all night."
"I would much rather be with you longer―even if it is over the phone."
"I don't want to have to hang up on you," he threatened.
"You wouldn't really, would you?"
Silence. "Will you let me take you to get something to eat when I pick you up?"
"You've been doing that a lot lately."
"But you've barely eaten anything! Doesn't count."
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