I lean across the seat and pry her hand away from being tucked against her chest. I grab her wrist with both hands and I pull her toward me. She’s still trying to fight me by pulling her hand away, so I release her and look her directly in the eye. “Give. Me. Your. Hand.”
I’m not sure if I just scared her a little, but she relaxes and allows me to grab her wrist. I put her wrist in my left hand and I hold up my right hand in front of hers. “Spread your fingers.”
She makes a fist instead.
I pry open her fist, then force our fingers to intertwine. I hate that she’s being so resistant. She’s pissing me the hell off. All I want to do is hold her damn hand and she’s making such a big deal out of it. We’re doing everything backward in this relationship. Couples are supposed to start out holding hands and going on dates. Not us. We start out fighting, end up screwing, yet we apparently haven’t even made it to the point where we can hold hands. If things continue at this rate, we’ll probably move in together before we even go on our first date.
I squeeze her hand until I know she can’t pull away from me. I scoot back to my seat and I put the car in drive with my left hand and then ease back onto the road.
We drive the next several miles in silence, and she occasionally tries to ease her hand from mine, but each time she does it I squeeze a little tighter and get even more agitated with her. She’s gonna hold my damn hand whether she likes it or not.
We hit a red light and the lack of movement outside the car and the lack of conversation inside the car shifts the mood tremendously, thickening the air with tension and . . . laughter?
She’s laughing at me.
Figures.
I slowly tilt my head in her direction, giving her a sidelong glance. She’s covering her mouth with her free hand, trying not to laugh, but she is. She’s laughing so hard that her body is shaking.
I have no idea what she finds so funny, but I’m not laughing with her. And as much as I want to turn away and punch the steering wheel, I can’t stop watching her. I watch the tears form at the corners of her eyes, and I watch her chest heave when she attempts to catch her breath. I watch her lick her lips as she tries to stop herself from smiling so much. I watch her run her free hand through her hair as she sighs, coming down from her fit of laughter.
She finally looks at me. She’s no longer laughing, but the residue is still there. The smile is still on her mouth and her cheeks are still a shade pinker than normal, and her mascara is smudged at the corners of her eyes. She shakes her head, keeping her focus on me. “You’re insane, Warren.” She laughs again, but only for a second. The fact that I’m not smiling is making her uncomfortable.
“Why am I insane?”
“Because,” she says. “Who throws that big a fit over holding someone’s hand?”
I don’t move a muscle. “You do, Bridgette.”
The smile slowly leaves her face, because she knows I’m right. She knows that she’s the one who made a big deal out of holding hands. It was me who wanted to show her how easy it was.
We both look down at our hands as I slowly pry my fingers away from hers and release my grip. The light turns green as I grab the steering wheel and press on the gas. “You sure do know how to make a guy feel like shit, Bridgette.”
I give my full attention back to the road and rest my left elbow on the window. I cover my mouth with my hand, squeezing the stress out of my jaw.
We make it three blocks.
Three blocks is all it takes for her to do the most considerate thing she’s ever done for me since the moment I met her.
She reaches to the steering wheel and takes my hand. She pulls it to her lap and slides her fingers between mine. She doesn’t stop there, though. Her right hand slides over the top of my hand and she strokes it. She strokes my fingers and the top of my hand and my wrist and back down to my fingers. She stares out her window the whole time, but I can feel her. I can feel her speaking to me and holding me and making love to me, all in the motion of her hands.
And I smile the entire way to my sister’s house.
? ? ?
“Is she older or younger than you?” Bridgette asks when I turn off the ignition.
“Ten years older.”
We both exit the car and begin walking toward the house. I didn’t ask her to come with me, but the fact that she didn’t wait in the car is proof that another wall has been torn down between us.
I walk up the steps, but before I knock on the door, I turn and face her. “What do you want me to introduce you as?” I ask her. “Roommate? Friend? Girlfriend?”