She takes a breath as if steeling herself. “You can read them. I want you to. This is what I hide from others, but I don’t want to hide from you. If it’s too weird for you—”
“It won’t be.”
“You don’t know that. If the dark corners of my mind freak you out, I have to know now.”
“I mean, what are we talking here? Sex with animals? Incest?”
Her mouth falls open. “Finn. God.”
I can’t help laughing at her reaction. “Well, you’re making it sound dire.”
She stacks the books on top of each other. “They’re just words. Fantasies. It doesn’t mean I want all of this, but sometimes it just bubbles up.”
“Just because I take photos of a park bench doesn’t mean I want to fuck it.”
She blushes, looking down. “Before I met you, I would’ve burned these before I let anyone see them.”
“Why, Halston? Don’t you understand everyone has fantasies? Everyone has at least one dirty, dark thing they want that they won’t even admit to themselves?”
“Yes,” she says. “Why do I have to be one of those who admits it, though? And then shares it? Broadcasting it is like stripping in public and asking people to evaluate me.”
I did the right thing deleting those comments. I decide here and now to do it with every post so she never questions herself like this again. She’s come so far since we met. “I know opening up isn’t easy, but you might find it to be a good thing.”
She picks up the “flowery” journal. “When I was younger, I got so excited about stuff. I wanted everyone to experience my favorite books, movies, plays the way I did. People made fun of me.”
I rub my jaw. This isn’t something I can relate to as a man, except that I have a daughter turning nine. Already, I’ve noticed her feigning disinterest in “uncool” hobbies, like the sticker collection we’ve been working on since she was four. It reminds me of the eight-year age gap between Halston and me. “Then you should be even more proud of yourself.”
“Sometimes I just wonder if being myself is worth the price tag.”
Her honesty is brave. I wish she could see that. It’s taken a toll on her—the things she said earlier, the way she ran off instead of talking to me, this deep-rooted fear of being abnormal that’s stuck with her so long. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t concern me, especially with how quickly she weaned herself off her meds. I’ve bitten my tongue about it, opting instead to monitor her behavior for warning signs that she’s not handling it well. Nothing up until today has really worried me. But are there things going on in her head that even I don’t see?
I clear my throat. “Have you thought about talking to someone about that stuff from your past?”
“I spent ten years talking to someone about it.”
“Not your mom. The other stuff.”
“We talked about all of it.” She frowns. “Why? You think I need to go back into therapy?”
“No,” I say quickly. She’s already wary of people telling her what to do after enduring a decade of it with Rich and her dad; it’s why I haven’t brought this up before. “I just meant you can always talk to me about any of that if you want. No judgment.”
She nods distantly and after a few seconds, says, “Maybe I do need to go back. I’m sorry about earlier. I think . . . this isn’t easy for me to say, but my moods are a little more extreme now. I don’t know if it’s still withdrawals or just . . . who I am.”
“Withdrawals?” I ask. “You haven’t mentioned any before.”
She lifts a shoulder. “I’ve had a few headaches. Nausea.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s nothing major compared to some of the horror stories I’ve heard.”
I want to take her in my arms again, soothe it all away. It doesn’t feel like the right moment for touching, though, not while she’s working through her feelings. “I still want to know,” I say. “Will you tell me when it happens?”
She nods. “This afternoon, I overreacted.”
“So did I. I just wish you hadn’t run off like that.”
“I understand. I’m going to leave these with you.” She shows me the journal. “We can talk tomorrow, or whenever you get to them—”
