More Than Words

Chapter 1 - DOUBTFUL

DOUBTFUL (adj.)

1. Lacking a definite opinion, conviction, or determination.

2. Marked by qualities that raise doubts of worth, honesty, or validity

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Evan

I was nine when I learned that society had certain expectations about how a person should look. My mother had gotten photos from our family camping trip developed at her favorite one hour photo next to the grocery store and pointed out how my stomach bulged in the two piece bathing suit I was wearing as I slid down the smooth boulder atop the waterfall just before plunging into the basin below.

There was no mention of how happy I looked as I slid down, no "remember how much fun we had that day," none of that. Just the comment on my body. Just the judgment.

I started favoring clothes that flattered me, or better yet concealed me. A year after that fateful photo you couldn't find me in anything but jeans and hoodies. It didn't matter the weather or the season. I'd rather sweat beneath a hoodie than expose myself to scrutiny.

But I wasn't safe then either. On one particularly hot summer day as my mom and I readied ourselves to head to a local nursery to buy flowers for our garden, I opted for jeans and a t-shirt instead of a hoodie.

I'd be elbow deep in dirt soon enough so I wore things that I didn't mind getting dirty. I remember the scowl on my mother's face when I met her in the driveway. Her perfectly plucked eyebrow lifted up in an unnaturally high arch, like it too wanted to opine on my appearance.

"Can't you at least dress like a girl?" She spat at me, disappointed.

I wanted to say "what am I supposed to wear to a garden center? Pearls?" But my ten year old self didn't have that kind of audacity. Not externally at least.

I wish I could say that my now almost 28 year old self has found the audacity to finally tune out the sound of my mother's nagging voice telling me I'm too much of this and not enough of that. But I haven't. Which brings me to this moment. Staring at my reflection in my full length mirror, dragging my hands self-consciously down my body like I was made of clay and could smoothe out the lumps and bumps by sheer force of will.

The free fall my self-esteem was about to embark upon is stalled by the sound of a knock at my door.

"Come in!" I holler from my bedroom. Mine is a small two bedroom apartment and noise passes through walls here easier than water through tissue paper.

"Ev, it's me! We gotta leave like right now if we're going to have any chance of being on time," Clara's voice gets louder as she lets herself in and makes her way to my bedroom. She props a hip against the doorframe and catcalls me. "Damn girl, who knew you had been hiding those legs under your scrubs!"

"Clara, I don't know if this is really appropriate for a work party." Even though the dress hugs my legs just above the knee I can't help the compulsion to tug it down. Doing so, however, only serves to expose more of my cleavage. And then when I pull up on the dress to cover my chest, the bottom lifts right back up and flirts with my thighs.

"You look perfect," she quickly assures me. I open my mouth to further voice my uncertainties but she must sense it because she shuts me down before I get the chance. "Besides, it's not really a work thing. Some Angel Investor is hosting a private party for the entire L&D department and the trauma unit. And it's being held at the most exclusive nightclub in the city."

She sweeps into my room like it's hers, collecting my purse, keys, and coat before looping her arm around mine and tugging me away from the caricature of myself I see in the mirror. "And if you even think about leaving before midnight, Cinderella, I'll make sure your favorite radiologist is tied up whenever you order imaging."

I roll my eyes but can't help but smile. "Okay, but I'm blaming you when I turn up to work as a pumpkin."

***

I'll be honest, clubs have never really been my scene. I can count on one hand the number of clubs and bars I've been to in my life and each time I'm there I feel like a fish out of water, counting the minutes until I can leave and go home. My key to survival is finding a dark corner or an empty space on a couch and biding my time with my overpriced rum and coke that I never finish because I don't like the taste of rum.

"Let's start with a drink and then scope the place out," Clara yells above the music into my ear. I nod and follow, scanning the room as we weave through the crowds. Relief fills the nervous pit in my stomach when I catch sight of a few familiar faces from work.

A spot at the bar opens up and Clara bee-lines for it. "Damn, I could have sworn there were like three more bartenders just a second ago." She complains to no one and anyone. Even so, it's not a few more minutes before we're both the proud owners of tequila shots and a Cape Codder.

Clara lifts her shot glass to mine in a toast. "Bottoms up," our glasses clink together and we down our shots. The liquor burns my throat the whole way down and I can't suppress the grimace as I fight a cough after I swallow.

"Bleh! Why do we do this to ourselves?" I say through a mixture of laughter and retching.

"Liquid courage my dear. Just what the doctor ordered." Clara downs half her drink and I mirror her lead. Then she takes me by the hand and steers us once more through the crowds. "Time to dance!"

We down the rest of our drinks, deposit our glasses on a table, and pierce through to the heart of the dance floor. Sure enough, after I shake out the rust, I begin to enjoy myself and succumb to the way the music moves my body.

Time ceases to exist. I'm living in the present and allowing the melodies to drown out the constant white noise in my mind. My usually noisy thoughts that ricochet through my head like comets are quieted by the pulse of the music that thumps through me like a heartbeat. Steadying me. Hypnotizing me.

I begin to experience things out of order. Clara taking away an empty glass before I remember drinking the liquor it contained. Laughing together because Clara found an ice cube in her cleavage before I remember how I spilled my drink all over her when someone knocked my elbow mid sip.

I see wild, fiercely green eyes that halt me in my tracks when I step out of the bathroom before I remember that I could feel them watching me long before I stepped away from the packed dance floor.

I walk right into them, drawn to them like lamb to the slaughter.

You ever notice how often the thing that draws something in is described as being dangerous to what it attracts? Moths to a flame, lambs to the slaughter, hook, line, and sinker. Icarus to the sun.

In this case, forest green eyes that I could get lost and wander around in for days.

The closer I get to the owner of those green eyes the clearer my own green eyes begin to see things. The fog that had descended on my mind is cleared and I'm hyper aware of every inch of space between our bodies, and the unspoken command in his unwavering gaze.

"Excuse me," he and I both say at the same time.

A blush heats my neck and cheeks. Maybe it's the liquor but I'm pretty sure this guy might be the most attractive man I've ever seen outside of a magazine. Maybe even then.

"Sorry, I was just on my way back," I mutter through my embarrassment that my lust for this guy must be written across my forehead at this point.

I try to turn and walk away but the number of people walking around crowding the hallway makes it difficult to pass him by without our bodies brushing against one another.

"Wait," he calls to my back and I stumble to a clumsy stop in my stilettos. I swear I can feel the way the air moves out of his way leaving nothing between us when he stands behind me and palms my hips.

He dips his head down to my shoulder and speaks lowly in my ear. "Dance with me?"

My inner voices war with one another. The hopeless romantic screams "what if he's the one? dance! Go have fun!" while the cautious realist looks down her nose over her glasses at me and tuts "don't do it, Evan. Not again. It never ends well."

I argue back against my better judgment, "but he smells so good, and his hands feel even better."

What's one dance?

Famous last words.