Not a Fan (Wilbur Soot)

Grief

"I want to see where you're hiding all your art." Wilbur answered, looking back to her with a smile. He turned back around, continuing to pace through the towers of boxes, his hands held behind his back as he peeked into any box that had come open in the move. 

Aurora felt the familiar anxiety rise in her chest that she experienced when she showed Wilbur the portrait she had done of him. Only this time, the feeling was tenfold. He had given her such a confusing reaction the first time when there was only one painting to examine. How would he react to multiple? 

She walked towards him hurriedly as he approached a box marked Fragile!!!! written in her own hand writing. 

"In that case," she started, reaching out and grabbing his wrist. "I think it's time I head to work." A nervous laugh escaped her, her voice bouncing between the maze of boxes. Wilbur froze, his eyes locked on her hand. If he wasn't so close to what he was searching for, she would've let go immediately. 

"Work?" He asked, his eyes trailing from her hand, up her arm, and finally meeting hers. Her heart was pounding from how he close was- to her art. Definitely pounding because of the art she didn't want him to see.

She turned to face the direction she was pulling him, breaking the gaze. Surely he had gotten the hint, she didn't need to continue ushering him. Her hand felt like stone, frozen around his wrist. She should really let go. 

"We can't all live off our art." She answered, keeping her eyes forward. 

"Do you, um, need a ride?" Wilbur's green voice floated through her vision. The stiffness in her hand crumbled, her grip on him slowly sliding away. It was a simple gesture, really. A neighbor is moving, you help out. A friend needs a ride, you offer. So why didn't this feel like a casual favor between friends? 

As one hand slid away from him, her other reached for the door handle. Warmth filled her hand, long fingers intertwining themselves with hers. A hand so large and gentle, eliminating any space between their palms. With her face still staring at the door, the realization set in. It was his hands- what they reminded her of. 

She hurriedly grabbed the door handle, pulling the door open. She used this as an excuse to let go of his hand, stepping to the side as she held the door open. 

"I work from home. Computer tech. Um, but thank you, for offering." She could hardly think. He needed to leave. Now. 

"Yeah, anytime." She could hear the disappointment, maybe even confusion, in Wilbur's voice. She didn't dare look up though. 

"Thanks again for stopping by." Her voice was practically a whisper, her body pressed as tightly to the wall as she could. She just wanted to be alone. 

Wilbur moved past her slowly, his eyes burning into the top of her head as he stepped through the doorway. She stared at his feet, closing the door the moment they were fully beyond the frame. 

Aurora locked the door, wrapping her cardigan around her tightly. Her breaths were shallow and shaky as she walked through her living room, landing on her couch that was placed diagonally in the center of the room. 

His hands. 

She ran her fingers across the palm that Wilbur had held. Her face felt warm, her throat was tight, as she allowed herself to remember him. 

Wilbur's hands were just like how she remembered her dad's. Large, warm, strong but gentle with her, calloused, safe, home. 

She missed him. Her dad was far from perfect, but what parent isn't? He wasn't too present in her life after the divorce. She missed the man he was when she was a child. The one who would let her dance on his toes around the living room. The man who put her on his shoulders during every little league game. The one who would sing her to sleep after she had a nightmare.