Anxious Love (Love Sick #1)

by Sydney Aaliyah Michelle

  "Okay, I'm going." Ryan squared his shoulders, walked across the street, and looked up; his head craned back. "Leah?" he whispered in a loud voice.

  "What?" I asked in the same voice.

  "I can't wait." He blew me a kiss, and while the move was cheesy and obnoxious, the kiss landed smack dab in my core, and I moaned under my breath as he disappeared under my balcony. I stood up and walked to the north side as he walked back in my view. He turned and smiled before making a right at Decatur and disappearing from my sight.

  Later that night, Sophie's tentative knock passed through my door.

  "Come in," I called out from my office as I continued to type.

  "Hey," she said with her head lowered as she peeked in the door to my office. I finished a sentence and closed the computer.

  "How was the ginger?"

  His face lit up when she realized I wasn't mad.

  "He was okay. I mean it's a shame when you have so much but don't have a clue what to do with it."

  "Well, maybe he needed someone like you to teach him."

  "I taught him some stuff all right." She collapsed in the overstuffed chair opposite my desk and peered out the open balcony door.

  I cleaned my desk, putting the reference books back in their place on the bookshelf that covered the wall behind me.

  "You okay with tomorrow? I didn't push you, did I?"

  "Yes, but it's okay. It's not a bad idea really."

  "I thought it would be good. We went there a couple of weeks ago, and you were fine. I mean you were good, right?"

  "Yeah," I said with raised eyes. I was basically fine. Sophie didn't need to know how much self-talk and positive affirmation it took for me to leave my house that day. She had no clue that I took a full pill about three hours before we left the house to make sure it would temper my anxiety until after I arrived. No one knew how much physical and mental effort it took me to leave my home daily to face the world. If they did, they would put me back in the hospital.

  Every day, I woke up and got dressed, showered, brushed my teeth, washed my face; everything any normal person did to start their day. I sat at my desk or the kitchen table and mapped out my day. I created a list and charted my route. I worked in alternative routes and always, always had an escape plan to get myself back home. Armed with all this information, I walked to my front door and stood there. Sometimes for a few minutes, and other times, it could be for an hour. I looked over my list, and I made an assessment on whether it was worth it or not.

  Real OCD, I know.

  If it was worth it, I went about my day, adjusting my plan and route and determining the value of each step. Not until I returned to the safety of my home and the familiar and comforting click of the door as I locked it behind me did I take a deep breath. A breath that was nowhere full enough for what I put my brain through, and often, I would collapse in bed, unable to function normally for a few days.

  That was a good day.

  If I determined it was not worth it, I berated myself all day and night until I got up the next morning and did it all over again.

  "Leah."

  I blinked and snapped back to the present.

  "Should I not have done that?"

  "No. It's okay. I want to go." I leaned back. "I like him. I want to give it a try."

  "That's so great." Her face beamed like a proud mother. "What can I do to help?"

  "I don't know yet. But I'll let you know, so stay close." I winked.

  "You know Mark, Allie, and I will do anything for you. You've helped each of us so much. We owe you."

  "You don't owe me."

  "Yes, I do. I know you think your issues make you a difficult friend. And that it's hard for you to let people in, but what you lack in immediacy, you more than make up for in sincerity."

  I grinned remembering why I loved Sophie.

  "Do you allow yourself to think about her?"

  I leaned forward and placed my chin on my hands as my elbows rested on the desk.

  "I think about her all the time." I blew a piece of hair out of my eyes. When it wouldn't move, I stood up, tucked it behind my hair, and retreated to the living room. Sophie followed.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up."

  I turned toward her. “No, it's okay. I don't mind talking about her. I feel guiltier when I go a few days and don't mention her. My therapist calls it survivor's guilt."

  "Oh, when does it go away?"

  "I can feel it hurting less than it did in the past. I mean it’s not as raw as it was when I got out of the hospital, but it still hurts. At the current rate of diminishment, I don't think it will ever go away. Not completely."

  "What about her family? Do you talk to them?"

  "I try and call her mother on her birthday. We were born on the same day; I think that's why we hit it off so quickly when she moved to my high school our sophomore year. We were practically twins. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't have had any fun in high school and college, until..." My voice trailed off, and I fought the urge to shut down. It was simmering closer to the surface than I usually allowed it to get. I focused on my breathing and pushed it back down. My breath caught in my throat when I realized tears were running down Sophie's face. I placed my hand on her shoulders, sat down on the couch, and she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me.

  When I talked about my best friend with Sophie, I knew it triggered memories of her and her mother. We would huddle together, and I never knew if she was comforting me or I was comforting her.

  Regardless, we were both relieved to have each other. We knew exactly what the other was going through. It was another thing that bonded us.

  We both knew what it was like for someone close to take the easier way out and leave us in this world without them.

  Seriously, what is happening to me?

  In the last eight days, I had turned into a stalker. I called her day and night, ran by her place on my morning runs, ended up at her place unannounced, and hit up her friends to find out what she liked and disliked.

  Now, sitting in the middle of Audubon Park, a picnic spread out in front of me, I devoured a romance novel because she wrote it.

  The guy in the book and I had the same problem. We were obsessed with a girl. From the way the book was heading, he didn't end up with her.

  I wanted to end up with the girl.

  In the book, the main character was obsessed with his girl. She was secretly in love with his best friend. It should have given me a clue right then; girls didn't go for the stalker, they went for the nice guys who helped them pick up the pieces later.

  I had explored Uptown, a great place to run, but I hadn't spent much time in Audubon Park. At this time of day, the park was quiet, green, wide open, and cool under the full trees. I spread out a New Orleans Saints blanket that I planned to give to Leah after our picnic. I laid out the food, leaned back, and got back into the book.

  As I read a scene with my mouth hanging open, I didn't hear Leah walk up until she spoke.

  "Must be a good part?"

  I dropped the book in my lap. Her beauty would have knocked me on my ass if I weren’t sitting down.

  "Oh, shit. I mean shot." Correcting myself made me sound like a pussy. I shook it off, but she had already bent down and picked up the book.

  She placed the book on her knees and scanned the page; she bit her lip, and I blushed as she discovered the hot sex scene I was in the middle of reading.

  "It gets better." She handed it back to me. "You bought it?"

  "Yeah, ordered it from Amazon."

  "I would have given you one." She stood back up and smoothed down the front of her white V-neck T-shirt. She surveyed the park before sitting down.

  "Is this spot okay?" I asked.

  "No, yeah, it's perfect." Her black skirt flared out around her. She pulled it over her knees as she sat cross-legged. Her hands felt the grass around her.

  "How did you find out my pen name?"

  "I saw a book poster sign
ed at the 21st hanging on the wall. It was newer than the other artwork, and seeing how you are such good friends with Mark, I assumed."

  "That's pretty perceptive." She took off her shoes and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. "What do you think?"

  "It good. It's a little dark. I thought romance books were all mushy love stories."

  "Some of them are, but I write where my mind takes me." She shrugged.

  "So is it based on your real life or a fantasy?"

  Her forehead produced the cutest little crinkle. "Overactive imagination and some of my fantasy."

  "And the more"—I cleared my throat—"intimate portions. Is that fantasy?"

  I grinned and held my breath, hoping I didn't sound like a creepy pervert, but I was curious.

  "Why do you want to know?"

  "Wondering what I have to live up to."

  She blushed but smiled, and I exhaled.

  "You hungry?" I asked.

  "Starving."

  I purchased the meal because I didn't cook. I picked out chicken salad, an artichoke dip, and something made out of cream cheese. I also got some French bread and crackers. I sampled all of it in the store. I hoped she liked it.

  She tried everything, nodding and grinning after eating a little of everything. I wasn't sure about the beverage choice, so I brought a cooler of small bottles of champagne and a couple of beers. She went for the champagne.

  As I poured her a glass in a small plastic cup, she watched me.

  "You did good."

  "Thank you." I grabbed a beer, opened it, and held it up. "I have to admit this is the first picnic I have ever hosted."

  "I'm impressed."

  "That was the goal." I tapped my bottle against her glass and took a sip. I needed to distract myself from grinning like a fool from her praise. "So what made you want to be a writer?"

  The wrinkle between her eyes reappeared.

  "I'm sorry. I seemed to be asking the wrong questions. What do you want to talk about?"

  "No, it's not that," she said, but the wrinkle remained. "I don't usually have to talk about my writing, hence the pen name."

  "You're good. I would think you would want people to know this belonged to you." I held up the book.

  "I don't know. It's not about that. I mean I love the idea of someone reading one of my books and knowing it touches them or helps them, but I would do it even if no one bought a single book. It helps me."

  I was curious about her choice of words. Writing helped her. "I get that. I mean I wouldn't go as far as to say I would play football if I didn't get paid for it."

  "A gazillion dollars is nice."

  "Very nice. Especially since I never had money, but I remember what it's like to play for the pure joy of it, and I get a glimpse of it, usually on game day."

  She nodded as if she understood, but I had the feeling she grew up with money.

  "When my first book hit a bestseller list, I admit I liked it, and I reminded myself to enjoy it. Enjoy the victories, but it never fails, the next day, I freak out because I'm like, oh shit, how am I going to do that again."

  "Have all your books been bestsellers."

  "Yes." She grinned.

  "Well, that helps."

  "Yeah, but I'm still surprised every time it happens. I figured as long as it continues, I owe it to my fans to write the best book I can."

  "Do you enjoy the process?"

  "Love the process." She elongated the word love as her eyes grew wide and she smiled. "Taking something that doesn't exist and making it into something. It's the most amazing feeling in the world. I never have to remind myself to enjoy that part."

  "I think that's where it's different for me. There is so much of the preparation I don't like."

  "Like what?" she asked.

  "I hate getting up early and going to bed early. I hate that I can't eat or drink certain things during the season because of how it affects my ability to perform. I don't like it when something I have to do takes me away from something I want to do."

  "Are you trying to warn me?"

  I narrowed my eyes. "What do you mean?"

  "You trying to tell me you're going to be a lousy boyfriend when the season starts."

  The startled wide-eyed look on her face made me laugh, as she realized what she said.

  Boyfriend.

  I was shocked she said it, too, but I liked the sound of it.

  "Please don't answer that. I—"

  "Hey. I guess it’s a fair question coming from someone looking into the role." She rolled her eyes and downed the rest of her glass. I changed the subject.

  "So if you write under a pen name, how do your fans find you?"

  "Email, Facebook, Twitter, they all known me under my pen name." She picked at the grass.

  "It's like you have a completely other personality." She nodded.

  "I like to refer to it as my author platform. It's a brand, like Coke and Pepsi." She took a sip of champagne and set the glass down. "It's like you. You're a different person on the field than you are off the field."

  "So you've been stalking me a little bit, too." I grinned.

  She licked her lips and laughed. My eyes had been aware of her lips since we started eating, but now, I was transfixed.

  "Maybe, but not on purpose. I swear I Googled NFL quarterback; I was doing some research for a book idea, and a clip I watched was of you sacking the quarterback for Florida State in the Sugar Bowl last year."

  "Which one? I sacked that fucker three times that night." I tried to remain humble, but sometimes, I couldn't help it. I loved what I did and loved that I was good at it.

  Her face shifted off to our left. I followed her gaze, but nothing was there. Her demeanor changed in response to my cocky attitude. It turned her off.

  Shit, the last thing I wanted to do was disappoint her.

  I reached out, touched her hand, and she shivered.

  "Hey. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

  "Oh, no." She shook her head and reached out and touched my arm. "I wasn't offended."

  "Good because I'm not an asshole."

  "But you're kind of proud of yourself." Her eyes blinked. "I love your confidence."

  I am a fucking writer, so why can't I think before speaking.

  In the span of an hour, I had used the girlfriend word and told him I loved him. Well, not him exactly, but that was what he was thinking. I acted like a lovesick teenager around him. I wrote about this stuff for a living; you’d figure that I would come up with some better banter.

  Every discussion returned to the same topic—how he felt about me and how I felt about him. While his actions clued me in to how he felt about me, those could be ignored or disregarded. When spoken, the words were out in the world for others to comment on and misinterpret.

  We continued our little picnic in silence. My gaze continually scanned our surroundings, but on the fifth survey, I got caught.

  "Are you looking for someone?" he asked.

  My head whipped back around, and his eyes peered at me, amused.

  I grinned, and he took my hand and rubbed my fingers with his thumb. I shivered, but he continued. He seemed content to keep doing it until I stopped shivering, but it was no use. He was causing me to shiver—that and sitting in an exposed area for an extended period. My medicine dulled.

  Because of my anxiety, I perceived the world differently. The medicine helped, but when it wore off, it wasn't like Cinderella's carriage turning back into a pumpkin at precisely midnight. It was more subtle, more gradual. It was a whole different way of reacting to the world, and it took a little more concentration. Something I couldn't do with him studying me.

  But then he rubbed his hand up my arm, and he licked his lips and leaned into me and the world slowed down.

  "Hey, you okay?"

  I concentrated on his voice but couldn't stop staring at his lips. I tried to pull my gaze away from them, from him, but I couldn't. His facial expressions made me feel adored, and I didn't wan
t to miss a thing.

  I leaned in further to get a better look, but my eyes closed, and the next thing I knew, his lips touched mine. I pulled back a little and opened my eyes. The world caught up to whatever dimension we were in. It was much too abrupt for the moment, and I felt on the verge of a panic attack, but then I thought, maybe...

  I closed my eyes, leaned in, and kissed him again. My lips parted, and I licked them, but my tongue rubbed against his lips and retreated. We were so close. His lips shifted into a grin, and I parted my lips in surprise. He reached his hand behind my neck and pulled me closer as his tongue entered between my lips.

  A muffled giggled escaped, and I was surprised to find it came from me. It disappeared into his mouth, which made him grin and pull back. The world stayed calm as I thought about how his lips felt on mine. His tongue swiped against my tongue with confidence. I opened my eyes and peered into his. They were no longer light; they had a definite dark hue and the color swarmed as if wondering how to take in the person they saw before them.

  Is it possible that I found something else to balance me?

  I leaned back, but as his hand slipped away from my cheek, I placed my hand on it to keep him firmly in place. I looked off to my right as the streetcar clinked by, and people strolled down St. Charles Avenue. I turned to my left and watched a group of kids cut across the park on their way home from school.

  I turned back to Ryan and smiled. He smiled back, and to thank him, I kissed him.

  I removed my hand from his; satisfied it would stay where I wanted it. My hand reached out to touch his chest. I wanted to confirm it was as solid as I’d imagined. My brief hug a few nights before had only hinted at it.

  I touched the skin peeking out the top of his T-shirt and ran my knuckle across the top. It was his turn to shiver, but it deepened the kiss as his tongue pressed into my mouth. I flatted my hand on his chest and pressed back; he was solid, unmovable. He laid a soft little kiss on my mouth before pulling back and looking down at my hand splayed across his chest.

  His face tilted, and he stared with a sexy grin.