“Do you trust me, William?” I hesitate to answer that. In all honesty, Jenna has given me no reason to trust her. She waits and then sighs. “If you go with me, we can practice. I can’t think of another way to acclimate you to crowds otherwise.”
“Did you do that? For your fear of loud noises?”
She nodded. “Yes…I went to see some movies. About war. And”—she shudders as she continues—“I went to a rifle range. That was hard. I freaked out pretty bad.”
I look up, suddenly wanting to know more about her—about when she struggled with panic like I do.
“How did you get through it?”
“I reminded myself that it’s mind over matter.”
Again she’s speaking in the language of metaphors. I’ve heard this expression before, but I still don’t get it and it’s even hard to envision. She seems to pick this up from my reaction.
“It means that I had to remind myself that I’m stronger than the fear.”
I nod, looking down, thinking about her words. How incredibly brave it was to force herself to confront that fear. Just the thought of her “freaking out” at a rifle range stirs something in me—a fierce protective instinct, I think. I imagine myself there with her, wrapping my arms around her, whispering that it will be okay, protecting her.
If she’s brave enough to do that…then I can be, too.
“And if I want to leave?”
“Then we’ll leave,” she says simply.
“Why did you freak out at the rifle range?”
“It brought back…memories. They took me by surprise.”
“What memories?”
Her face changes, along with her entire posture. “Bad memories. I’d rather not depress you with them.” She’s laughing as she says this and waving a hand in front of her. She doesn’t want to go into detail because, whatever it is, it’s dark. I remember the pictures and film I saw of that war. Horrible images come to mind.
And when she was little, she was there…in the middle of that. I’m marveling that she chose to expose herself to gunfire in spite of the terror.
I clear my throat. “I’ll go, then. If you come with me. But—”
“We’ll leave if you have to. The minute it becomes unbearable. No judgments. Okay?”
I nod, but my heart is racing. I’m not sure if it’s the idea of putting myself out there, or if it’s the fact that I’ll get to spend more time with Jenna.
***
I’ve purchased the tickets to the hockey game, and we are going after I leave work. I’d expressed doubts—via text message—about navigating the traffic around the hockey arena. She had the idea of parking at a nearby movie theater and walking. So that’s our plan.
I’m waiting at the curb outside her apartment. I’ve texted her twice now to tell her I’m here, and she’s finally just let me know that she’s on her way down. Minutes later, she appears wearing jeans and a long-sleeved sweater that accentuates the curves of her body. She smiles when she catches a glimpse of my car, her pale hair spilling out under a dark knit beanie. The more I focus on her, the harder it is to focus on anything else, so I blink and tear my eyes away.
“Right on time. Sorry I was late…” she says as she gets in.
“Again.”
As I reach over to adjust the temperature in the car, I note that her brows twitch, but she doesn’t respond. I pull away from the curb while she remains silent.
Her cinnamon smell assaults my senses the minute she’s settled beside me. It’s so distracting that I can barely keep my mind on the road.
I clear my throat. “I’m always on time. Or when I’m not, I have a good reason for it.”
She shifts in her seat. “Somehow I already knew that about you.” I puzzle over her words, wondering how she could know that about me. “So how are you feeling about this?” she asks.
I shrug. “I’ll have more information for you when we get there.”
“Are you nervous?”
“I’m trying not to think about it. When I think about it, I keep picturing massive crowds of people all shoving up against each other—” And again that image fills my mind. I can practically feel the press of bodies, and I can’t see anything but heads and arms all around me. I shake my head to rid my mind of the image.
“Don’t think about that.” She places her hand on my upper arm. “Try not to picture it that way.” I shrug my shoulder, causing her hand to slip away, but she doesn’t comment on it.
“I can’t help it. It’s how I think. Everything is in pictures.”
“But there are other ways to be in a crowd—controlled ways. Like a hockey game where everyone has their own seat and more or less stays in their own space. It doesn’t all have to be like a mosh pit at a rock concert. You could imagine yourself at a museum, looking at pretty art, everyone respecting their own space.”
She watches me for a long time, but my hands are on the wheel and my eyes are on the road. I try to ignore that feeling I get when she’s near. It can be so overwhelming that it’s distracting, and I have to fight that in order to stay focused on my driving.
Minutes later we are in Anaheim, and I park the car. We make our way to the sidewalk along the busy, crowded Katella Avenue. The Santa Ana River, which, despite it being winter, is barely a trickle as we cross over the bridge. I glance over my right shoulder toward the mountains and see that there is very little white on them. Meteorologists are predicting one of the worst droughts ever this year, and I think they are correct.
When I think of droughts, suddenly I picture the empty high desert along Interstate 15 on the way to Las Vegas. But that picture is yanked from me the moment I feel someone take my hand and squeeze it. I jerk my head to look.
Jenna’s hand is holding mine, and everything speeds up—the pounding of my heart, the speed of my blood through my veins, the rate at which I’m breathing. I have no idea what this gesture means. I bring our hands up to stare at them.
“Sorry—do you not like that? I was just offering some moral support.”
“Support? Like…holding me up?”
“Figuratively, yeah.”
I ponder that. “Is that what holding hands means?”
“Sometimes. But sometimes it’s more. It depends on the context…on the relationship.”