Counterfeit Love

"It's not like you to beat around the bush," I told him, confused by his formal tone, his careful wording.

"I still want the drinks and the sand and the beach and long, lazy days," he told me. "But I was thinking maybe I'd like those days, that sand, those beaches, if you were around enjoying them with me."

Across from me, he was fidgeting around in his seat, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

Nervous?

He was nervous.

And his words almost sounded like he was, I don't know, asking me out?

"Finch, are you asking me out?" I asked, sure I was reading into the situation wrongly.

"Yeah, angel, that's exactly what I'm doing."

"But... why?" I blurted out, shaking my head.

"Why?" he repeated, brows raising. "I know you've been through hell, Chris. I am not saying I know the details that well. And I'm not asking for them. But even so, if that has fucked with your head, you still got to see what an amazing fucking woman you are, right?"

"I... I just." I was sputtering. And a mean, ugly part of me was whispering in my ear that he was just screwing with me, that no one could say and mean something like that about me. "I just don't understand why you would want to sign on for this," I said, waving an arm down at myself.

"For what? Someone smart and confident and accomplished and interesting and beautiful?"

"For someone so screwed up," I corrected.

"You're not screwed up," he objected, frustrated.

"Finch, I have been in therapy, intensively, for the better part of a decade. I've tried all the medications. I've done all the exercises. And even after all of that, I feel comfortable admitting I am pretty damn messed up in the head."

"There's nothing wrong with your head."

"Finch, listen to me," I said, resting my hand on the table, touching the tips of his fingers with mine. "There is. Okay? This isn't a matter of opinion. And I need you to understand that. I am not going to suddenly stop having my nightmares, my panic attacks. I might never stop flinching when men get loud or start fighting. I will likely always obsessively try to control every detail because that is what makes me feel calm and safe. These things are not exactly normal. And I don't want you thinking that they are going to change."

"I'm not asking you to change," he insisted.

"Look. Okay," I tried, taking a steadying breath, pulling my hand back, starting to cross them over my chest before hearing my therapist's voice in my head about not being defensive when a situation was becoming difficult. "I know you know a lot about me. And you've spent a decent amount of time with me. But that doesn't mean you know what you would be getting into here."

"Give me a chance to make that decision for myself," he suggested.

"I can't even honestly say that I know if I can do this," I admitted.

"Again, you can't know that until you try, doll."

That was a rational argument. But I wasn't sure he was considering all the ways that I might never be like other, less damaged women.

"Finch, I think you need to also consider something else that typically comes with seeing another person." God, this was hard. Harder than I could imagine. The words felt fat and clumsy on my tongue, making a cold, slimy sensation move through my belly. "I don't know if I can be physical with someone, Finch," I finally blurted out, hating the way the words sounded, never liking to admit to any shortcomings, even if they were no fault of my own.

"Sweetheart, of course I have thought about that," he told me, voice soft. "And I'd like to think you know me well enough at this point to know I wouldn't pressure you."

"I'm not trying to imply that. I am trying to impress upon you that while you might not see it as an issue now, two weeks from now, two months, two years, you might think it is a huge deal. Physical intimacy is an important part of most romantic relationships."

"Alright," he said, leaning back. "How about this? We give this a shot. The normal way. But with no pressure or expectations. If either one of us feels like the lack of physical intimacy has become a problem, we tap out. No hurt feelings. No anger. We just... go back to being friends."

"You make it sound so easy."

"Not all things are as complicated as you tell yourself they are, love. I'm not saying we are gonna end up with a picket fence and a litter of kids. I'm saying I think we got something here. And that we can at least give it a try. We owe that to ourselves."

"Why not just... stay friends?" I suggested. It seemed the most likely outcome. Why not avoid all the stress of figuring that out?