Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Don’t be sorry.” Her lips curl up at the corners. She barely smiles at all, but it’s enough to knock me back a foot like some crazy forcefield action just blasted out of her, as forceful as any cannon. “I know you’re probably not pro-touch, but it’s…it’s just my opinion…” She chews on her bottom lip, which makes something totally inappropriate come to life inside me. “I think you might need a hug.”
“A h-h-hug?” How can a one-syllable word sound like eighty-six point seven nine syllables in my mouth? Why does it feel like there’s a mouse doing incredibly enthusiastic mouse loops on a mouse wheel in my brain, except the wheel and mouse are both my brain?
“Yes. A hug. I know touching is a big deal, and I respect that you might not be ready for that, but it’s what my parents did for me when I was hurting. My granny too. Or sometimes we just…we just hugged for no reason at all except that it felt really darn good.”
The mouse wheel brain thing spins harder. Faster. I’ve heard that people have to lubricate those wheels with cooking oil because other oils aren’t safe. My brain could use some lubrication. Maybe then it would stop sending weird thrills followed by a whole lot of anxious anxieties spiraling through me. Through me? It’s probably that I’m just spiraling. Period.
“I hug Booty Sue all the time, not just when she’s got wide eyes and is extra hooey. My mom hugs her crab, and she tries with her fish, though she’s not always successful,” Amalphia continues.
I don’t have to tell her that my life has been one giant black hole when it comes to affection. The story I just told her in the kitchen pretty much fills her in on that without me saying so. Not only is my heart going off in jerky rhythms, but my breathing is just as messy.
“My parents hugged each other. A lot. It’s a great way to communicate to someone that they’re not alone. Some people might scoff and think a hug can’t actually do anything, but I don’t know. Ask a sick child. Ask a crying friend who just needs to know you’re there and you get it, but they don’t want to hear any big, fancy words. There’s a reason the whole shoulder-to-lean-on saying is so overused. It’s a powerful thing, having someone there.”
How is it even a thing right now that Amalphia feels like my safe place? Not my person, but a safe person. The only person in my life who has truly been a human being.
“Oh. Oh…no. Oh my god, Warrick, I’m sorry.” Her hands start flapping like they’ve sprouted wings, are the wings, and want to be the wings. She looks like she’s going to take flight, and two bright pink spots appear on her cheeks.
My mouse-wheel-muddled brain registers the fact that she’s beautiful. I said she was pretty before, but I was wrong. There’s nothing in this world that could make this woman anything less than gorgeous. She’s all heart, and finding a person like that is like having a spaceship drop out of the sky and start belching out alien-sized toads with extra warts, which really only makes them extra cute.
“You don’t have to have the hug,” Amalphia assures me. “I’m sorry.”
Her hands are still flapping.
I have no idea what’s making her so upset until I reach up and brush at the itch on my cheek. Actually, both my cheeks are itching. They’re tight, pinched, crinkly, and crispy, like finding a used tissue in the bottom of your pocket.
Also…wet.
Doubly like the mystery tissue.
Shudder.
What the hell is going on?
I glance up at the ceiling to make sure the sprinkler system hasn’t somehow been activated, but I have it set to spray out this stuff that smothers any fire, and it doesn’t wet the area, so my robotics and all the other pricey things in my garage won’t be ruined in case of disaster.
“I’m sorry,” Amalphia whispers. Her hands stop flapping, and she stands immobilized. “I’m a total turdbiscuit. I wasn’t thinking about the fact that you…that you might be extremely wary of touch. It’s way too personal, way too much, and way too fast. It was thoughtless, and the last thing I want to do is hurt you.”
My face. It’s wet. It’s not the sprinklers, and it’s not the roof leaking. It’s not even raining outside right now.
It’s eye leakage.
My lungs are bad. Wrong. It’s like they’ve been sent through the washer, turned inside out, and replaced that very way.
I swipe the wetness away. “What if I want the hug?” my mouse wheel brain asks before I can snatch the words back and sew them up tight with stitches because my lips are snitches. I didn’t give them permission to express all my aching, angsty innards.