In the Lion's Teeth: Second Edition

Chapter Twelve

The elevator isn't far, so you leave your coats in the car so you don't have to lug them around all day. Since he has a membership — which gets in two people any time he visits! — you're able to get in quickly, without having to navigate the purchasing line. He grabs a pamphlet as you enter and flips it open.

"At some point I definitely want to see the Mathematica and Hall of Human Life exhibits," he says. He turns to you and hands you the pamphlet. "But I don't mind when. You can decide where we go first."

"I think we should check on those dinosaurs, first," you say. You glance up and your eyes lock on his. You freeze, tongue stuck, brain stammering. You thought you remembered his eyes, but you don't remember them being so bright and sharp and intelligent and so, so green. When you speak again, it's a little shaky, and you have to work very hard not to stutter. "I mean, just to make sure. That they're dead."

Dona grins brightly and laughs, he actually laughs at your stupid joke. The confidence it gives you isn't much, but it's enough to straighten up your back and loosen your shoulders and stop staring so much at your feet.

"All right," he grins. "Let's go."

He turns, and when he does, his fingers glance your wrist again, curling into your skin even as they pull away.

Your knees go weak and your head swoons, and you follow him.

There are people everywhere, young children running all over and parents shouting at them and teenagers laughing and playfully jostling each other around and there's so much going on, so much more than you've been used to in many, many years. Even in your lectures with upwards 150 people, it's not like this, because everything is still and only one person speaks at a time. You jerk away a little too sharply any time you accidentally come too close to someone, your hands are curled tight, your eyes dart everywhere.

Dona doesn't say anything, but he does take your arm, so gently, and carefully guides you to where you need to be. When you stop, he pulls you into a quieter corner, his hands on your elbows, and asks softly, "Are you all right?"

Your eyes dart over his face as you try to figure out an appropriate answer. But his eyes are so gentle, so calm and concerned, you don't even attempt to bullshit him.

"I'm not used to large groups of people," you murmur honestly. "It's... it's just..." You jerk your hands in a weird, awkward gesture because you can't find the right words and it's so frustrating and even frightening in some ways, and —

"Overwhelming," he finishes for you. You swallow and nod.

"Do you want to leave?" he asks. "We can go somewhere else if you'd rather. I want you to be comfortable."

And you would be more comfortable somewhere else, back in his car or at a quiet coffee shop or diner or an isolated corner at a park, but he was so thoughtful when he planned this, knowing it was the kind of thing you'd enjoy if you could just get over all your stupid hangups. So even though it scares you and even though you might change your mind, for now, you say, "No. I want to stay here." Your next phrase sticks on your tongue like peanut butter, but once you close your eyes to center yourself, finally you're able to add, "With you."

He smiles and gently squeezes your elbow. "All right," he says. "If you need to relocate somewhere quieter, let me know. I've been here so many times I could probably draw the layout from memory. I can find you a quiet place."

You smile and nod, and for a few not quite awkward moments, you both linger there, his fingers still on your elbows, soft, warm, and the pads of his right just a little rough.