Cindy Miles - At First Touch

She stopped and strained her ears. She heard absolutely nothing. “What?”

“It’s the sound of ice cracking.” He chuckled. “From around your heart.”

She shook her head and made her way down the hall. “So glad to know you turned out to be such an Irish American comedian.”

“I’m a natural, too. Don’t you think?” he called after her, in a heavy Irish accent.

“Whatever, Lucky Charms.” Reagan just shook her head, stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. Eric’s whistling and footfalls as he moved around the living room echoed through the wood, and she shook her head yet again. What was it with him? It irritated her that he could coax—and so easily, so it seemed—a smile from her. Like, irritated the absolute hell out of her. Why?

Truth be told, she’d wanted to try to pull her weight a little more and thought she’d make an attempt at dinner for her and Em. Perhaps going to the grocery store wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Basic ingredients for say, spaghetti, couldn’t be that hard. Could they? Running a brush through her hair, she tied it into a ponytail, brushed her teeth, and made her way into her room where she quickly pulled a pair of shorts and a tank from her dresser, felt for her Converse sneakers, and slipped her bag over her shoulder.

She could do this. This...grocery shopping with Eric Malone.

Practically family. Right? He didn’t really feel very familial.

With a deep breath she made her way back to the living room.

“Your shirt’s inside out.”

Reagan froze.

“And...you have on two different-colored sneakers.”

For a split second, embarrassment burned the skin at her throat in a hot flush. But only for a split second. She narrowed her gaze. “Liar. As if I’d trust you, the practical joker.”

“No, Reagan, really—”

“Just come on before I change my mind,” Reagan interrupted. Was he always the perpetual clown?

“Whatever you say, ma’am,” he complied, chuckling.

The air shifted as Eric moved ahead of her, and she noticed he smelled...good. Clean, like some kind of zesty, piney guy soap. The screen door creaked, and she knew he was holding it open for her. “Thanks,” she muttered, and eased through and onto the porch. Immediately, she lifted her hand, feeling the air to find the pillar. Tapping her stick to make sure she didn’t trip.

But a warm pressure settled against her lower back as Eric placed his hand there, guiding her. “Almost to the end,” he said.

“I know,” she answered, and felt the post with her palm. Shame coursed through her. Why in the hell did he feel the need to baby her? If she fell, she fell. So what? Falling would be better than feeling incapable.

Finally, she felt the ground beneath her feet, and she strained her eyes to try to pick out the shadowy form of a vehicle. Before she could, though, Eric applied pressure to her lower back once more and guided her. A door creaked open.

“Up you go,” he said cheerfully, and Reagan felt for the seat, then placed her foot inside and rose up. “I borrowed Jep’s old truck. Watch your feet,” he warned, and the door creaked and slammed shut.

Reagan felt for the seat belt but couldn’t find it. In the next second, the heat from Eric’s body leaning over her made her suck in a breath.

“Here, I’ll get that,” he said, and he was close, and his hands brushed her shoulder, then the belt snugged against her. A metal click sounded, and his warmth left.

“Ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” she answered.

With a laugh, Eric turned over the engine, revved the motor, and the truck began to move. The wind blew in from the open window, tossing Reagan’s ponytail. The air felt heavy, as though rain loomed overhead. The pungent brine wafted in, and she wiggled her nose.

“It’s definitely an acquired smell,” Eric commented. “So. Reagan Rose Quinn,” he started. “It’s a gorgeous day.”

Reagan kept her face turned toward the open window. Shadows flashed by, abstract, undeterminable. “So you’ve said. Although it smells like rain.”

“Right.” He chuckled. “Rain’s great, too, don’t you think? Liquid sunshine. What I mean to say is, what do you see?”

Had Eric Malone lost his mind? “Have you been eating sketchy mushrooms, Malone? I see shadows. Dark blurry forms. Nothing else. We went over this already, remember?”

Again, he chuckled. “Really? That’s it? You’re just doomed to a life of haze and darkness?”

Exasperated, Reagan blew out a sigh. “What’s your problem?”

“I, my beautiful but testy neighbor, have zero problems at the moment. Except your mule head. Now, think. Use your other senses and tell me what you see.”

Reagan rolled her eyes. “Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

She shook her head and faced the window. “Don’t...try to be my Mr. Miyagi. My therapist.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Well, how many blind people have you befriended, huh? How many?”

“You’re my first,” he answered cheerfully. “And you’re totally avoiding this exercise.”

She gave a short, acerbic laugh. “Of course I am! It’s ridiculous!”

“Come on, Reagan,” he crooned. “Humor me. Stick your hand out the window. Take a deep breath in. What do you see?”

It angered her—his constant battering of trying to help her see. But what was she to do? Leap from the truck? She’d committed to the grocery store outing, and now she was good and freaking stuck. Better to humor him, so he’d possibly drop the whole damn thing. Silently, she stuck her hand out the window.

“It’s windy,” she said.

“Tsk, tsk, I call no being a smart-ass,” he joked. “Of course it’s windy. I’m driving fifty-five miles an hour. Now feel it again. And take a big whiff.”

Reagan let her hand drift outside the open window and thought about it. Felt the moisture cling to her skin. Slowly, she inhaled, exhaled. She rubbed her fingers together. “A storm. The air feels heavy, and it has a salty, earthy scent.”

“You got it,” he agreed. “Big black clouds are swirling overhead.”

“I thought you said it was a gorgeous day?” Reagan asked.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right?” He added, “I love storms.”

Reagan thought back—way back, to before she and Em left Cassabaw. “You always did,” she answered quietly.

“You remember.” Eric laughed softly. “Sitting on the end of the dock, watching those storms roll across the river,” he mused. “Then, when the rain started to sting our skin, or lightning flashed, we’d run for the dock house and stay crammed under the quilt table until the storm passed.”

A smile tugged at Reagan’s mouth. “I don’t remember much, but yeah, I do recall that.”

“Good times,” Eric said. “Childhood is the best. Okay, what kind of music do you like?”

At least he was a decent conversationalist. No uncomfortable silent lull looming over their heads. “I...don’t know. Any kind.”

“God, Reagan.” He groaned. “You’re killin’ me. Come on. There has to be something you love. How about the crazy tunes your sister digs?”

Reagan laughed lightly. “To a certain extent, yeah. But definitely not to Em’s capacity.” She thought. “Classic rock, I guess.”

“Now you’re talkin’,” he said, and after a moment, the Eagles’ “Hotel California” began that mournful opening. “Remember how we loved this one?”

Reagan nodded. “Still do.”

The music continued and the Eagles began to sing the lyrics. Joined by Eric. And he sang loudly.

“Don’t ya remember the words?” he finally asked.

“Of course,” she answered.

She shook her head and wondered about Eric Malone’s motives.