The Mistletoe Motive(36)

Not a single word leaves his lips, but like our first kiss, his voice is in my head, so clear. I want to know. Tell me everything you want, or nothing, if that’s what you want. I’m listening.

“It means I don’t have the most nuanced social awareness and I do best with very direct, honest communication,” I tell him, a little quieter, suddenly aware of how much I’m confessing. “It means loud and sudden noises hurt not just my ears but my brain and startle me badly—that’s why I wear my noise-cancelling headphones so much. It means I love to start my day with a hot cocoa and I often eat the same lunch, because routines are soothing and make order out of what feels like a very chaotic world.

“It means I have the same sweater dress in six colors, because finding clothes that are actually comfortable and work appropriate is harder than you’d think, and when I find a unicorn like that, I hoard it. It means music isn’t just a pleasure for me, it’s vital to my happiness. It means I’m trusting and literal and I’ve been underestimated and misunderstood more than my pride would like me to admit.

“And it also means that I’m a creative and a daydreamer, an artistically expressive person who pours herself into her passions and loves fiercely—the causes and people close to my heart—and does none of that by half-measures.”

As I draw in a deep breath, finally unburdened, I hazard a glance up at Jonathan. His jaw is tight, his eyes on fire.

“I feel very vulnerable right now,” I whisper. “Say something.”

“I—” He swallows roughly. “I wish I’d known. And at the same time, I feel like I already know a lot of this, too.” His fingers dance along mine. “I’m glad I know even more now.”

I swallow nervously. “I realize that just because I’ve explained all this doesn’t mean I’m suddenly necessarily easy to understand.”

He tips his head, staring at me. “But I think I do understand you, Gabriella…at least, a little. I couldn’t help but start figuring you out, spending so much time together.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve figured you out at all.”

His mouth quirks. “I have an excellent poker face.”

“It’s rude.” I start to pull my hand away, but he holds tight.

“It’s a defense mechanism,” he says. “I’m good at hiding the things you aren’t. And maybe that sounds like an advantage, but because you’ve been yourself around me, in lots of ways, Gabriella, I’ve learned what you like and what you need. I’ve figured out that change stresses you and unknowns give you unbearable anxiety.”

I stare at him. “You have?”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you about the business meeting a week in advance. I knew you’d worry. And I—” He cuts himself off with a sigh, rubbing his forehead. “I didn’t want you to worry, so I figured I’d tell you the day before, but then the flowers came that day, and you dropped that bomb about Trey, and it threw me off, and then the next morning, before the meeting—”

“I know.” I squeeze his hand, still tangled with mine. “You planned to tell me that morning. But the Baileys got here early.”

His gaze searches mine. “Do you…believe me now?”

I smile. “I do.”

Relief washes over his expression. “Good.”

Our gazes hold. It’s so intense. So…oddly intimate. It’s overwhelming. So I look away, staring down at his hand wrapped around mine, our fingertips brushing.

“Gabriella,” Jonathan says.

I keep my eyes down, heart pounding. “Yes, Jonathan.”

His thumb strokes the back of my hand. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“Thank you for being safe to trust.”

Jonathan slips our hands apart, then clasps his coffee again, spinning it in a slow, steady clockwise turn. “I suppose in the spirit of friendship, I could reciprocate and be…vulnerable, too.”

“Don’t sound too excited.”

He gives me a baleful look. “I’m trying here, Gabriella.”

“Sorry.” I nudge his foot under the table. “I appreciate that.”

He stares into his coffee. “I have type 1 diabetes. It’s well-managed. But it still impacts me. It’s impacted us. Sometimes, when I’ve been grumpy, when I’ve abruptly ended conversations and stalked off, it’s been because I didn’t feel well, or my alerts were warning me I was too high or low. Because I needed to check my blood sugar or have a quick snack or catch my breath and wait for the insulin adjustment to kick in.”

So many moments that confused me over the past year start to fall into place. “Story time with Eli. Was your blood sugar low?”

He nods.

“And in the car, when you ate your candy, it was low then, too?”

He nods again.

“Your phone, you track it somehow.”

“That’s right. I have an app that’s connected to my CGM—my continuous glucose monitor—but I check my blood sugar with finger pricks using a glucometer, too. My CGM isn’t foolproof and I don’t like relying only on that. So last night for instance, I checked with the glucometer right before I left the locker room after my game, and I was a little low. When I knew I was driving you, I wanted to be sure I was up enough and safe behind the wheel, so I checked again in the car using the app and my CGM, and I was still lower than I wanted. Thus, the peanut butter cups.”