destinyofshipwreck
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- Figure Skating RPF (21)
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Summary
If a to-do list is detailed enough, with subheadings and branching scenarios, every possible outcome is contemplated in advance. A therapist once taught her the grounding exercise of listing sensory inputs when she can feel herself getting too inside her own head, and it’s stupid because the whole point of them is their temporariness, but when she's on her own with a notebook handy, she keeps those lists too.
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Tessa thinks she may have seen him, or someone who looks like him, at the end of the dairy aisle in the Farm Boy on Wellington.
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"We've done interviews a million times, I don't need to relax," he says.
"It's been a while," she says again, and he shrugs, rising from his chair and stepping toward her.
She rests her palms on his biceps and he follows her lead after a moment, cupping his hands over her shoulder blades, a tactful distance between their bodies, and he takes one deliberate slow breath, and another.
Their familiar push-and-pull, even after years away, gives her a choice: yield to his breath, or disrupt it.
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It's one in the afternoon, and if he were serious about it, he would have been early, but he arrives exactly on time, shouldering his way into the foyer off the kitchen through the heavy double doors from the alley, and bringing a flurry of snow along with him.
"Scott," he says, after he's pulled off his coat and dropped his backpack, sticking his hand out to shake hers.
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Gratefully she slides one hand into his pocket alongside his. Not palm to palm, but his fingers find the spaces between hers to weave together by habit anyhow.
"Sorry," she says. "Should've brought gloves."
"No," he says. "I like your hand here."
Only decades of practice at hearing each other over any cacophony, speaking without speaking under their breath, makes her sure he'll understand her when she murmurs, "Where else do you like my hand."