Incredible Times

Chapter 12

A few weeks pass by, and I have yet to tell Bob my secret. 

I want to tell him so badly, but there rarely seems to be a good time, and if there is, I chicken out at the last minute. My lack of confidence frustrates me beyond words, to the point where I begin to close myself off. 

I first came to realize this when Bob and I met for lunch one Sunday afternoon. We had just finished eating our sandwiches, and Bob stretched his hand across the tabletop for me to grab. I, deep in my own insecurities, didn't notice, causing Bob to sit back in his chair forcefully.

"What is it with you today, Helen?" he snapped.   

My eyes shot up at his harsh tone, a frown on my face. 

"What do you mean?" I challenged. 

"It just -- it seems like you haven't wanted to interact with me at all lately," he explained, eyes narrowed. 

"I --"

"Whenever I talk with you, all that comes out of your mouth is 'uh-huh' or 'that's nice.' And just now, I tried to hold your hand, but you rejected me!" he said with a hint of resentment. 

"Bob..." 

"I just don't understand what I'm doing wrong!" 

My heart broke when Bob said this. I considered letting it all out, right then and there, but since we were in a public place, I settled for grabbing his hand instead. 

"Bob, you aren't doing anything wrong. In fact, you're doing everything right," I said. "Just think, you noticed that something was off in the first place." I paused, then continued with a lowered head, "I'm sorry for treating you the way that I have been." 

He stroked his thumb absentmindedly over the back of my hand, gaze fixed at the table. 

A few minutes passed before he finally spoke. 

"I forgive you." 

At those words, the tension in my body released. 

Then he said, "What's got you so down?"  

I released his hand with a sigh and leaned back in my seat. 

"It has to do with work again," I lied. "I'd rather not talk about." 

He looked up at me and nodded knowingly. 

"I love you," he said softly. 

My heart warmed at his words, but at the same time, my gut twisted with guilt. 

"I love you too," I replied with a weak smile. 

Now, thinking back on this incident, I can't help but feel all the more angry with myself for not telling him weeks ago. I pick at my gloved fingertips, a nervous habit I've picked up, and stride through the dark, narrow alley. My supersuit catches the tiniest bit of sunlight from above, and sparkly red light dances on the brick walls enclosing me. 

My watch beeps, and I pull back my sleeve to glance at it. Another invention given to me by the ASA, the message on the face of the watch reads: 

Car stolen at the intersection of Traction Ave and Metro Way. 

I sprint into the light and summon the Elasticycle with a press of a button on my watch. I kick it into gear and swerve my way through traffic towards Traction Avenue. Humanoid figures blur in the peripheries of my vision, arms outstretched as I race past them. 

A few minutes later, I screech to halt at the intersection of the crime. A man, who I presume to be the victim, stands in an empty parking spot on the side of the street, hands thrown up in anger. Police officers talk to him in attempt to calm him down.