“Is he okay?” he asks. I turn my head to look at him, theroom dark but still bright enough for me to see the color of his hair, and a hint of freckles where the light touches his skin.
“Yeah. Now he’s feeling a little embarrassed that you saw him cry.” I rub a finger into my eye, jaw cracking as I yawn. “It’s tough being ten.”
“It is,” Jack agrees, both of us speaking softly, only a foot of distance between our faces. “You okay?”
“It’s also a little tough being thirty,” I reply, trying to make it sound like a joke and not a plea for help.
He doesn’t laugh, but gently folds the shirt he’s holding before adding it to what is evidently the Parker pile. Cheeks red, he scoots close enough to me that our legs press together, and slowly puts an arm over my shoulders. When I lean into it, he sighs in relief and tightens his hold. It’s endearing how shy and tentative he is, even about contact as gentle as this. The truth is, all I’ve ever wanted or needed from a partner is a tender, quiet sort of love. Love that looks like this—helping with chores that aren’t his to do, and touching meant to soothe, nothing more.
“You didn’t have to fold this,” I tell him, staring at the neat piles of clean clothes on the coffee table.
His thumb circles gently on my arm, hesitant enough that I can barely feel it. I put my own hand on his leg, just to rest it there, and wait to see if his sharp intake of breath means he’d like me not to. Instead, he adjusts himself so he can pull me in closer, the hand on my arm slipping below the sleeve to find skin. I’m not sure where this surge of bravery has come from, but I’m appreciative of being the beneficiary. Anything to keep the pad of his thumb drawing a figure-eight on my bicep.
“I like folding laundry. It’s soothing.”
“I call that basket the pit of despair,” I admit, making him chuckle. “Did Parker stress you out a bit?”
“A bit,” he agrees. “But, like, dogs barking stresses me out, so that’s not saying much. Mostly I just felt bad for him, and you.”
“Poor kid had that brewing for a while, I think. You know, sometimes I feel confident in how things are going with him, and then others…fuck, I don’t know. I don’t want to do anything wrong.”
Jack breathes in and out a few times, but keeps his silence. There’s nothing for him to say, anyway. We both know I’m going to mess up—all parents do.
“Maybe the most important thing is to love him,” Jack whispers after the silence stretches to minutes. “I…I didn’t have a lot of food as a kid, or, like, a nice place to live. But the worst part was knowing that my parents didn’t even want or like me. If anyone had asked me to choose between a sandwich or a hug from my mom, I would have picked the hug every time.”
I close my eyes, shutting off one sense to focus on the others. To focus on the way my butt is going numb and how my hip is digging into the couch in a slightly uncomfortable way; the big warm body next to mine, and the smell of dryer sheets. Jack has the slow, even breathing of an athlete, soothing without even meaning to be. I wish, suddenly, that we were at the point where inviting him to stay the night wouldn’t be strange. I’d like to fall asleep listening to that breathing.
“You’re right,” I tell him, opening my eyes and smiling when the first thing I see is the pile of socks. “And that’spretty much been my approach to parenting so far. Victoria—my sister—grew up angry and mean; I grew up dreaming of running away, and I don’t want Parker to ever feel like those are his only options.”
21
Jack
I’m soaware of every interaction we’ve had, I know without even having to think about it that this is the fifth time I’ve touched Desmond in a way that a boyfriend would. It’s gotten easier each time, as though my nervous system is starting to recognize that not every form of human contact is a threat. Certainly not contact from Desmond, who’s so patient and kind, and makes me feel ten feet tall when he’s in my arms. I still haven’t gotten used to the narrowness of his frame, or the way it makes me burn with protectiveness. I’d like to curl around him and keep him warm.
Right now, sitting on the floor in the shadowy living room of his apartment, I’m so content that I’m not even nervous. My anxiety, which so often feels like an entity separate from me—an uninvited hanger-on that only ever causes me problems—is dormant. Smothered by the smooth, syrupy comfort that Desmond seems to exude from his pores.
We haven’t spoken in minutes, but it’s a comfortable sortof silence. He rested his cheek down against me, and is breathing so slowly I almost wonder if he’s fallen asleep. It doesn’t matter how many parts of my body go numb, or tingle with pain—I’ll sit here all damn night if that’s what he wants to do.
The squeaking of a door hinge breaks us from our stupor, the peaceful bubble popping as Desmond lifts his head and fixes his eyes on the hallway. I wonder if I should move my arm before Parker arrives. Desmond, whose hand hasn’t left my leg since he put it there, tightens his fingers just enough to let me know not to move. I’m disappointed in myself when my head buzzes with nerves as Parker inches into the room.
He looks twice as nervous as I feel, discomfort evident in the curl of his shoulders and the way he’s wringing the hem of his shirt. I don’t know him well enough to directly pinpoint the expression, but if I met a kid on the street and they looked at me like this, I’d think they were afraid.
“Hey, little buddy,” Desmond says, voice calm and even, body relaxed against me.
“What are you doing?” he asks stepping closer, eyes bouncing between the laundry and us lounging on the floor.
“Just sitting,” I reply. Parker’s eyes snap to mine, hands twisting more vigorously into his shirt. I wonder if he’s even aware he’s doing it. “Ready for some Minecraft?”
Desmond squeezes my leg again, which I read as approval. The offer takes Parker by surprise, his eyes widening and shoulders loosening. He shakes his head.
“I’ll just sit,” he says, walking around the end of the coffee table and dropping down next to me. I turn my head and find Desmond already looking at me, smiling.
“Washing or YouTube?” he asks lightly.
“YouTube,” Parker answers swiftly, accepting the remote Desmond passes across me.
Parker leans into my arm as he scrolls through the videos, looking for one he hasn’t watched. I stare at the television, Desmond’s head lying back on my arm, hair tickling my skin; Parker’s bony shoulder digging into my bicep. I think this must be what it feels like to be part of a family.
