Danny."
I give him a squeeze back. My eyes are dry because I have no tears left for my dad. I try now to remember only the good about him. "It's okay. It took me a long time to come to peace with it."
The waitress arrives with Ryan's nachos. She sets them on the table and gives us each a plate. I watch as Ryan takes a heaping pile and I pick one up to nibble at it.
"How did he die?" Ryan asks.
"Well, he actually got into Helping Hands Ministry and tried to clean himself up. In fact, the last memories of my dad are me going there to visit him. He actually was sober for a few months but then relapsed. He went back out on the streets, peddling drugs and eventually he got shot in a deal gone bad."
Ryan is silent for a minute. And it's okay. It's not uncomfortable and I watch him pick at his nachos. Finally, he pushes the plate aside and leans forward, crossing his arms on the table. He looks directly in my eyes with a seriousness that makes me swallow hard.
"I'm beyond sorry—."
I cut him off by holding my hand up. I give him a genuine smile. "You don't have to be sorry. I'm serious when I say I made my peace with it."
Ryan is shaking his head back and forth, and the look on his face is sad. "No, listen to me. I'm sorry because before tonight...I never once thought about any of this. I'm not sure I've even seen a homeless person outside of TV. And I am feeling all kinds of bad that I didn't bother to notice. But I’m grateful that you showed me something new tonight. Something everyone should see."
Ryan pauses and looks down at the table. My heart breaks a little for him because I can see that his ignorance of these issues is causing him some real pain. I don't know what to say to him. I feel clueless and all of a sudden, I'm thinking how very bad this evening is turning. Because I'm starting to feel something for this man sitting across from me and it's the last thing in the world I want right now.
And yet, I'm helpless when I reach across the table and take his hand in mine. With my other hand, I stroke the back of his, running my fingers lightly over the crisp hairs. I turn his palm up and trace my index finger over his callouses, reveling in how they feel against my soft skin. With my thumb, I trace around the outer edge of his thumbnail, almost absentmindedly while I think of something comforting to say to him.
I sneak a glance up at him and my breath catches. He is looking at me with such startling intensity that I drop his hand.
"Don't," he rasps. Then he clears his throat. "Don't stop touching me."
I am mesmerized by his look and I think I might go up in flames right now. The hunger in his eyes...for my touch, my approval...is overwhelming. I tentatively pick his hand back up and start touching him as he asked. I feel a connection to him that words can’t describe at this point. I’m sure I’ll spend a lot of time later analyzing it.
I opt for a change of subject to ease the tension.
"So, why do you have all these callouses on your hand?" I realize how that sounds and start snickering. "I mean—that is—if you can tell me in polite company."
Ryan pulls his hands back and snorts at me. He pulls his nachos back over and tucks in. "They're from playing hockey."
"Do you play inter-mural or something?"
His smile at me is one of indulgence. "I play for Northeastern. I'm the captain of our team."
I choke on the swallow of beer that was heading down my throat but is now headed for my lungs. Ryan patiently waits while I hack and cough to clear my throat. He actually smiles at me while he's chewing his food, patiently waiting for me to catch my breath.
"You're the captain of the team? The Northeastern, NCAA, Division I hockey team?"
I can see he's enjoying my shock.
"Sure am. Are you a hockey fan?"
"Uh, hello...born and raised in Boston. Of course, I'm a hockey fan."
Ryan gives me a smirk but rather than want to slap his face, I want to run my fingers along his jaw. He has dark stubble gracing the hard
I give him a squeeze back. My eyes are dry because I have no tears left for my dad. I try now to remember only the good about him. "It's okay. It took me a long time to come to peace with it."
The waitress arrives with Ryan's nachos. She sets them on the table and gives us each a plate. I watch as Ryan takes a heaping pile and I pick one up to nibble at it.
"How did he die?" Ryan asks.
"Well, he actually got into Helping Hands Ministry and tried to clean himself up. In fact, the last memories of my dad are me going there to visit him. He actually was sober for a few months but then relapsed. He went back out on the streets, peddling drugs and eventually he got shot in a deal gone bad."
Ryan is silent for a minute. And it's okay. It's not uncomfortable and I watch him pick at his nachos. Finally, he pushes the plate aside and leans forward, crossing his arms on the table. He looks directly in my eyes with a seriousness that makes me swallow hard.
"I'm beyond sorry—."
I cut him off by holding my hand up. I give him a genuine smile. "You don't have to be sorry. I'm serious when I say I made my peace with it."
Ryan is shaking his head back and forth, and the look on his face is sad. "No, listen to me. I'm sorry because before tonight...I never once thought about any of this. I'm not sure I've even seen a homeless person outside of TV. And I am feeling all kinds of bad that I didn't bother to notice. But I’m grateful that you showed me something new tonight. Something everyone should see."
Ryan pauses and looks down at the table. My heart breaks a little for him because I can see that his ignorance of these issues is causing him some real pain. I don't know what to say to him. I feel clueless and all of a sudden, I'm thinking how very bad this evening is turning. Because I'm starting to feel something for this man sitting across from me and it's the last thing in the world I want right now.
And yet, I'm helpless when I reach across the table and take his hand in mine. With my other hand, I stroke the back of his, running my fingers lightly over the crisp hairs. I turn his palm up and trace my index finger over his callouses, reveling in how they feel against my soft skin. With my thumb, I trace around the outer edge of his thumbnail, almost absentmindedly while I think of something comforting to say to him.
I sneak a glance up at him and my breath catches. He is looking at me with such startling intensity that I drop his hand.
"Don't," he rasps. Then he clears his throat. "Don't stop touching me."
I am mesmerized by his look and I think I might go up in flames right now. The hunger in his eyes...for my touch, my approval...is overwhelming. I tentatively pick his hand back up and start touching him as he asked. I feel a connection to him that words can’t describe at this point. I’m sure I’ll spend a lot of time later analyzing it.
I opt for a change of subject to ease the tension.
"So, why do you have all these callouses on your hand?" I realize how that sounds and start snickering. "I mean—that is—if you can tell me in polite company."
Ryan pulls his hands back and snorts at me. He pulls his nachos back over and tucks in. "They're from playing hockey."
"Do you play inter-mural or something?"
His smile at me is one of indulgence. "I play for Northeastern. I'm the captain of our team."
I choke on the swallow of beer that was heading down my throat but is now headed for my lungs. Ryan patiently waits while I hack and cough to clear my throat. He actually smiles at me while he's chewing his food, patiently waiting for me to catch my breath.
"You're the captain of the team? The Northeastern, NCAA, Division I hockey team?"
I can see he's enjoying my shock.
"Sure am. Are you a hockey fan?"
"Uh, hello...born and raised in Boston. Of course, I'm a hockey fan."
Ryan gives me a smirk but rather than want to slap his face, I want to run my fingers along his jaw. He has dark stubble gracing the hard
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