Riven, page 26
On our way out of the cemetery we passed an older man struggling with a collapsible easel, a canvas, and a bag of painting supplies.
“Can I give you a hand?” Rhys called, and dropped my hand to jog over. He picked up the easel and took the man’s bag with the easy grin that made most people smile back. They chatted as they walked to the man’s car, and I trailed behind them. When the man thanked him, Rhys took my hand again and squeezed. The man waved at us as he drove away and Rhys waved back.
We turned toward home and Rhys began talking about something else, but my mind stayed back in the cemetery. Rhys offered his help like it would always be welcome. Like he was happy to help. And I knew he really was. He didn’t expect anything in return and didn’t need any praise. It was help, freely given.
So why—when being with him had given me a life I never imagined—did it still feel so damned hard for me to ask him for any?
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Roan Parrish, Riven
