“No, not right now. Like…more broad. What arewedoing? Are we…together?”
He glances over at me, but it’s so quick I barely catch a glimpse of brown before his eyes are back on the road. His fingers wrapped around the steering wheel are just as distracting as his bicep was. He’s got pretty hands—long-fingered and slim, with smooth brown skin unbroken by scars.
He doesn’t respond right away, clearly thinking through what he wants to say. It doesn’t make me feel great about my chances of getting an answer I want.
“I wouldn’t mind hearing what you have to say about it,” he says quietly. I can’t help but laugh.
“I want you!” Have I not been fucking obvious about that?
“Really, though? Like…you want to date a guy?” Marcos takes a hand off the wheel to wave it around, a frown tugging the side of his mouth I can see downward. “In public?”
“Why does everyone assume I’m going to be pissed off about people thinking I’m gay?” I ask, annoyed. “Micky, too. Of course I want to date youin public, Jesus.”
“I wasn’t…” A pause. “Sorry. You’re right.”
“I like what we’ve been doing—hooking up and texting; occasionally hanging out. Usually, that’s all I want. But, Marcos, I really fucking like you. I don’t know how it happened or why, but it did and I don’t want to play this off as just a fling.”
“Okay. Yeah,” he agrees, although he sounds like he’s trying to hype himself up. He takes a deep inhale, chest inflating dramatically. “But you have to think about how it’s going to be when you’re dating a man. You’re going to constantly have to explain your sexuality to people, particularlysince you’ve only dated women in the past. And what about your family?”
I frown, because while I’ve had plenty of thoughts about wanting to lock Marcos down, none of those thoughts have included others. I shouldn’t have to explain why I’m with someone, no matter what gender they are. Nobody should have to do that.
“I’ll tell my family,” I promise, because I will. My personality isn’t one that thrives in hiding.
“And there’s also the problem with…me.”
“There aren’t any problems with you,” I retort, offended. He breathes a soft laugh, but his face remains stony and closed off.
“Thereisthough, Nate. I wasn’t kidding when I told you last year that I don’t like being touched a lot. That hasn’t changed.”
“Okay. You might have to explain that to me a little bit more,” I admit. I don’t understand it at all. I’m a tactile guy—I touch, hug, and generally just run my hands all over my friends. Hell, I’ve been known to kiss them on the cheek. Not liking being touched is an incredibly foreign concept to me. I thrive off of being touched.
“I wish I could,” he mutters testily, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off the discomfort.
“Can you try?” I request softly, and watch as his grip on the steering wheel tightens before loosening once more. He nods.
“It’s not… I’ve never been a big hugger or anything. It wasn’t a huge thing, although I was definitely a kid who liked their personal space. But these past couple years have been really fucking hard, and things got out of control and…”
He stops talking for a few seconds, and it’s painfullyobvious that he’s trying to tell me something without actually telling me. He tries again.
“My doctor says it’s stress and anxiety and…and PTSD. I just have a really hard time with skin-on-skin contact. I can’t eventhinkabout it sometimes without getting fucking dizzy. It’s…it’s ridiculous. And it’s not exactly a comfortable thing to deal with when trying to start a relationship. It’s a lot for me, and it would be a lot for you.”
Frowning, I look down at my legs and pick at a loose thread on my jeans. I have to choke down the desire to ask himwhy. He’s telling me what he can, right now, and it’s not my place to push for more.
“That sounds like hell,” I tell him honestly. I feel bad, thinking of all the times he’s held my hand or kissed me, and now knowing how stressed out he probably was about it.
“No, it’s—I mean, yeah, it sucks. But it could be worse. It could be a lot worse,” he mutters, once more talking about something I’m not privy to. “So, yeah. You’d do better to find someone less fucked up than me.”
He punctuates this sentence by putting the car in park and unclicking his seat belt. I look around, surprised that we’re already at his place. Before he can leave the car, I reach for him and put a hand on his leg to keep him in place. This I hope is a safe space to touch after what he’s just told me, as I’m not making direct contact with his skin.
“Marcos.” He looks at me, mouth firm and expression stony. “Touching people is something I do without thinking, which means I’m going to mess up. I’m probably going to make you uncomfortable sometimes, which is thelastthing I want to do. But I’m going to do my best to follow your lead, and only touch you when you ask for it, okay?”
He shakes his head mutely, jaw tight.
“It’s not fair to you,” he mumbles.
“You let me worry about what is or isn’t fair for me,” I counter. He turns to face me more fully, determination blazing in his eyes.
“It’s really that easy for you?” he demands. “Telling people you’re dating a guy? Having the sort of relationship with someone who might need to be fully clothed before he’ll fucking spoon you? I don’t know that I’ll ever get better, Nate. What if I’m like thisforever?”
