Counterfeit Love

With that, he was going, leaving me there with warm and gooey feelings in my chest.

I methodically handled all my luggage.

Normally, I felt relief when everything was back in order, but there was a sad little pang in my chest when it was all done. I guess because a trip that had ended up meaning a lot more than I anticipated was over.

But, I reminded myself, what was to come would likely be even better.

I didn't exactly know what to expect for the progression of my relationship with Finch. I couldn't claim experience with such things. There was a small bit of reassurance, though, in the fact that Finch didn't have any experience with serious romantic relationships either. We would trip along this together, I guessed.

I called and made an appointment with my therapist, wondering what she would say about all of this.

That it was going to be good for me.

That I might find it healing.

A part of me bristled at the idea that I would need someone else--in a romantic sense--to help me heal. But maybe that thought pattern had been a defense in the first place. Because there was no denying that being around Finch had already started to soothe wounds I hadn't even been aware were still raw and open.

I'd gotten to used to my life the way it was, and to everyone around knowing what I had been through, and therefore never trying to push me.

Finch hadn't exactly been pushing anything either, but maybe nudging. And in his doing so, I realized I could be around men who weren't family --or very close family friends--without feeling that uncomfortable, distrustful rolling in my stomach, without flinching when they got too close.

I also learned that I could reach out to him, allow him to reach out to me, enjoy his closeness, feel the unfamiliar stirrings of desire.

And, admittedly, I could not have learned about that without him there.

So the logic was pretty sound.

I could heal old wounds with a new relationship. Maybe not quickly, not all at once. But slowly and steadily over time.

Once, I would have found that prospect terrifying. All I felt now was curiosity and excitement. To see what other things I could have in my life, how good they might feel.

I'd never even considered the idea of children for the obvious reason of never believing I could have sex, due to my anxiety around it.

But now? If things could keep progressing for me, if Finch and I could get to that point? It was a possibility.

There was so much to think about.

And, yes, so many things I could start to plan out.

Even as the thought crossed my mind, I pulled up a note in my phone, jotting down things that needed to be considered, questions to bring up at therapy, items that I would need to pick up to make Finch's place more livable if I was going to be spending a lot of time there.

Then, finally, I went about my day, caught up on work, only half-curious why there had been no texts or calls from Finch. Knowing him, he was taking a nap, or messing around with his ink that Ferryn had texted him to say had arrived.

It wasn't until later that I started to get worried when I hadn't heard from him. While he hadn't expressly said so, I figured he would call me about getting something for dinner. He was a shameless example of that old adage about men and their stomachs. The guy loved to eat. And he preferred not eating alone.

But maybe he had things going on. I couldn't pretend to know everything that went into printing money, after all. There was only so much information you could find online since the people who were very good at it generally didn't want to share all their secrets. So while I understood that there was special paper and special ink and a special process for getting the 'hand feel' right, I didn't know how much went into specific parts of the process.

Though, I was curious, and was going to ask one day if I could sit in while he worked on a new batch.

Not wanting to be needy, I had my dinner in the dining hall at Hailstorm, chatting with my parents, aunt, and cousin Malcolm.

"He being a fuck already?" Malcolm's voice asked from behind me as I made my way down the hall toward my room to nurse the sinking feeling in my stomach at the idea that he was getting cold feet about the whole thing, realizing that he didn't need these complications in his life.

"What?" I asked, whipping around, finding him standing there, taking up all the space as he always did. A giant just like his father, the road captain of the local MC.

"Trying to do the casual thing, but your eyes kept looking at your phone. Waiting for a call?"