Carolina Days: Yesterday's Half Truths Part 10

"Are you going to walk behind me the whole time?" he asks looking back at me.

I nod my head in response and he closes his eyes briefly before looking forward again. Walking behind him the whole way, I quietly direct him until we reach the field. Now in the morning light, I can see it's a soccer field, with nets at each end and a dirt and gravel track circling it.

As we walk, Luke points out potential dangers. He isn't thrilled with how few street lamps there are and cautions me against walking this way at night again. He leaves me standing at the edge of the field as he slowly makes his way around it, stopping twice to inspect paths leading off and into the woods.

I see a bench I had not noticed the night before, not far from where I stand. I make my way over to it and sit while Luke finishes his lap around the field. He comes and sits next to me; not close, sitting at the very opposite end from where I'm sitting. He's doing it for me, I could tell, to make me comfortable.

We sit in silence until I notice a jogger enter the track from one of the paths leading in from the woods. I stand, my nerves kicking into overdrive and start to head back toward my house. Luke follows, but leaves s.p.a.ce between us. He must know the jogger spooked me and doesn't argue my need to go.

When we reach my house, he stands on the sidewalk while I stand facing my front door, my keys ready to aid my escape.

"Will you go away now?" I ask, not looking at him.

"If I drive up here every Sat.u.r.day, will you jog with me around that track?"

"No." I shake my head.

"Will you at least think about it before you flat out reject the idea?" he asks, annoyance dripping from his words.

Spinning, I lift my hands. "Why would you even offer to do that?"

"Doesn't matter why, just that I am," he argues.

I wrap my arms around myself. "It doesn't make any sense, driving an hour and a half each way to jog with me. What's in it for you?"

"It's not about me. It's about helping you."

"I don't believe you."

"Think about it, Lindsay. How long have I known you? What, about two months? You have gone from not talking to people on the phone to talking to me twice, one time you were the one who called, and we've web chatted. Then two nights ago, you went outside. You liked it so much you went out again and not with me on the phone this time. Do you understand how cool this is for me to experience this with you?"

All I want to do is prove to her that she can trust me. Watching Lindsay stand there, indecision written all over her face, is one of the hardest things I have ever done. When I woke up this morning, I knew this had the potential of blowing up in my face. Sure, she's been skittish, but somehow I've gotten her out of her house, with me.

Whatever battle she's struggling with, it's clear she doesn't know what to do. Part of me wants to reach out to her, hold her, convince her in some way everything will be okay. I don't know what made her this way and I know I have to bury the impulse to touch her.

She's studying my face as she processes what I said. It's clear to me in that moment how guileless she is. Every emotion she's feeling is broadcast almost in stereo across her face. She's scared. She has to be miles outside of her comfort zone, standing here talking to me. The fact she hasn't broken down or run away makes her one of the bravest people I have ever met.

"Why?" she murmurs.

"This is who I am," I reply.

"Can I think about it?"

I can't know if she's only using that as a way to get me to leave or not. If my gut is right and I can read her, I believe she means it. This morning has to be a lot for her to process; so instead of pushing her even further out of her comfort zone, I decide to let it go.

"If you say no, I'm prepared to convince you to change your mind."

"I figured as much," she grumbles.

She's so cute I want to laugh but instinctively know she'd take it the wrong way. I step back, increasing the distance between us, my gut twisting as I watch tension ease from her stance. Guilt unfurls within my gut knowing my very nearness is the cause of her stress.

Taking another step closer to Sally to bring her more relief I ask, "When will you let me know?"

She lifts her key from her pocket and opens her door.

"Soon." Then she's gone, the door closed firmly behind her, the flip of her deadbolt loud enough for me to hear it from where I'm standing.

"Bye," I mutter sarcastically to myself as I make my way to my car door.

Fifteen minutes into my journey home, my frustration has subsided and I can recognize how positive the meeting was in the grand scheme of things. She came outside and hung out with me. She could have called the cops instead. Getting her to open up isn't going to be easy, but I know it will be worth it. There was a moment, as she sat on the bench by the soccer field, when I watched her let go.

Her eyes were shut, her face tilted toward the direction of the morning sun. She looked so peacefully serene on the outside. It was as if for a moment her mind forgot to tell her what she was doing was wrong. I want her to be able to feel that way all the time, comfortable in her own skin.

I'm not sure why I've made it my business what she does. The why at this point doesn't even matter; it's something I have to do. I know better than to wait for her to get back to me. The 'soon' she gave me was too open ended. When I get home, I'll email her. If she doesn't reply today, I'll text her.

If she doesn't reply to that, I'll call; and if she doesn't answer, I'll be right back there knocking on her front door. Since it's Sat.u.r.day, and I'm not ready to go home yet, I drive to Clay's.

Maggie opens the door without even a h.e.l.lo. "Guess what Courtney is doing today?"

I follow her toward the kitchen, closing the door behind me. "What?"

"She's getting a tattoo," Maggie yells, jumping with excitement.

Courtney is in the kitchen, leaning against the island and smiling at Maggie's news. "Hey, Luke."

I lean over the island and kiss her cheek. "A tattoo?"

She nods. "Yes, sir. As soon as Clay is ready, we're heading to see the guy who did the tattoo on his back."

"What are you getting?" I ask, picking up an apple from their fruit bowl.

"A lily, for my dad." Her tone is melancholy.

This is one thing Courtney and I have in common, not having dads anymore. At least it wasn't her dad's choice to go. We talked about it once, how the loss affected us. I was younger than she was. In a way, I envied her being able to lean on her mom in her grief. For me, I was the new man of the house, without a male role model to look up to.

"It's cool that you're doing that."

She blushes. When I first met Clay's girlfriend, now wife, I would never have pictured her getting a tattoo.

"So where're you going to get it?" I ask, and then take a bite from the apple.

She wrings her hands and looks up at the ceiling. "I haven't one hundred percent decided. I'm thinking either my ankle or the back of my shoulder."

"My vote is for shoulder," Clay says, walking into the room.

He glances over at me. "Hey, man. Want to come with us?"

I shake my head, since my mouth is full.

Once I finish my bite, I reply, "Nah, seems like a family thing; and I need to get home and take Loki out. I only stopped by to give you an update on the girl I was telling you about before, the one who doesn't leave her house."

"The one you're training?" he asks, stepping around the island to drape his arm over Courtney's shoulders.

"Yep. Guess who I went on a walk with today?"

"No way." Courtney gasps. "That's great."

"I'm thinking her deal is less about staying inside and more about being freaked out around people."

"You do realize you're people, right?" Clay laughs.

I laugh and cough around the bite of apple I've just taken and throw the rest away. "Exactly, and she went for a walk, with me."

"I knew you liked her," Clay boasts.

"I like her but not the way you're thinking. Sure, she's pretty."

When Clay snorts, I pause to glare at him. "I like her as a friend."

"How many women friends do you have?" Clay argues.

Avoiding his eyes as I think, I struggle with his question before finally replying, "Courtney." I point at her and give her a thumbs up. "Maggie." Point and a wink as she giggles. "And Sasha," I add.

"You only hang out with Courtney and Maggie because of me, and Sasha doesn't count because she's your sister."

"I have some cool clients who are women and I consider them friends."

"Yeah, have you hung out with them outside of the gym?"

It's been awhile. My silence is his answer. I guess I don't have many women friends.

"Whether you want to admit it or not, you like this girl. What I want to know is do you like her or the idea of fixing her?"

I'm still pondering Clay's question when I get back to my house. Is Lindsay only a human puzzle I want to put back together or do I care about her apart from her issues. She isn't the first woman I've met with problems. Sure, hers are more extreme than most. It makes me wonder if she was always this way, and if she wasn't what made her?

As I drove from her house to Clay's my plan was to email her. I discard that plan and decide to call her instead, my curiosity getting the better of me.

I'm stunned when she answers. "h.e.l.lo, Luke."

"Lindsay. I didn't think you would actually answer."

"Does that mean I can hang up and it'd be cool?"

I chuckle. "No, I've got you now."

"Awesome," she replies, her tone reflecting the opposite.

"Have you thought about my idea?" I ask.

"I have. I'm not sure I can do it."

"You did today."

"That was under complete duress."

"Were you homeschooled?"

"Wait. What?"

"Were you homeschooled?" I repeat.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I want to know if you left your house and went to school every day."

"Oh."

I wait for her to elaborate but she doesn't. "Well?"

"I don't want to talk about this."

"I think I can help you."

"Listen, Luke," she snaps. "You're my trainer, not my therapist."

"How are you going to go to the reunion and be around people, Lindsay?"

She disconnects the call and I try to call her right back. I'm not surprised when it goes straight to voicemail. I don't bother leaving a message when I already can tell she won't return it. Instead, I send her a text.

Please, call me. I'm sorry I if I pushed you too far.

After ten minutes without a reply, I text again.

All I want to do is help.

I'm contemplating another text when she replies.

I don't understand why you want to help so badly.

Shocked as h.e.l.l that she's talking to me, I decide lightening the mood might be my best bet for her to keep speaking to me.

It must be my G.o.d complex.

You did not just text that!

I grin; it worked.

You don't think I'm all-powerful and awesome.