I dig my head into his chest, aware of that and yet annoyed he pointed it out. It’s just that I don’t want to say anything that’ll have me kicking my own ass when this all goes up in flames. It was easier to forgive myself for loving Hunter because I didn’t know any better back then, but I do now.
Falling for Isaac or Deacon in any meaningful way when I can clearly see them falling for each other just makes me a fool. There’s no need to put the words out there. God forbid they look back on this time in their future and laugh at me for being stupid enough to think I could fit in with them.
“I’ll think about it. I should probably get home.”
He kisses the top of my head before letting me go. “Okay. I hope I see you tomorrow.”
I hope I see him, too.
30
DEACON
Imake a plan in the shower. I know, I know, making plans is just setting myself up to be upset when they don’t go the way I intend, but it’s the way I am. I know from Gray that emotions aren’t like math problems. I know there’s no one equation that makes up love like in the conversation Isaac, Evan and I had Tuesday night. Also, according to Gray, what I’m seeking isn’t love—it’s acceptance. Belonging. Connection. My feelings, such as they are, remain a snare. They’re obscured. Blurred, existing inside a cloud I can’t see through.
I used to make these maps whenever I got angry. Once I calmed down enough, I mean. I would write down everything that happened—all the steps on the path that led to my feeling of anger—the one emotion I’ve never had a problem identifying.
Like:
Teacher called on me in class—> asked question too fast—>I couldn’t answer—>class laughed—>I got angry because I knew the answer once she asked someone else slower.
And then on top of the arrows I would write what I thought went wrong. 1. Don’t want to talk in class. 2. It’s impolite, and she knows I have a learning plan. 3. It was an easy question. Shewas talking too fast. 4. What’s so funny about me being quiet? Do they like when people laugh at them? Why don’t I ever get the joke?
At the end, ninety percent of the time, I came to the same conclusion: It’s not fair.
It’s not fair that I have to have accommodations. It’s not fair that some people refuse to make those accommodations. It’s not fair that I’m different enough to be noticeable.
Gray says everyone’s weird. Everyone has their quirks. Some people are just better at blending in, and unlike Millie who leans into all of hers, I’ve managed to blend. I got better at masking my quirks and tells in college through mimicry. If I heard someone say, “This is so fun!” I learned to study what “this is so fun” looked like on the outside. Smiling. Laughing. Bigger hand gestures. I practiced in the mirror.
I also learned how to hide my near constant need for stimulation. I can stim under a table. In a pocket. I can stim with sex and masturbation. I can blunt the noise of a club or a party with drugs and alcohol.
The new meds help moderate my anxiety, my ADHD, and my OCD. What they don’t help at all is the way I process information—language specifically. Numbers have never been a problem because numbers have rules. I can do words in small doses. In bulk, in a back and forth conversation, I’m too often overwhelmed.
Isaac said three words:you’re mine now, and they’re fucking with me because it was a small dose of information I should be able to process. The fact that I’m struggling with them is so frustrating. The calculation is that what he said was a bulk of information, which makes no sense. And it’s not fair.
According to Gray’s diagnosis of what I need—acceptance, belonging, connection (the ABC’s of intimacy, according to him)—the fact that both Evan and Isaac are willing to be involvedwith me on an ongoing basis fits the definition of acceptance. Belonging and connection, however—those are ephemeral. Cloudy. They depend too much on other people to believe I can decide whether I feel those things for myself.
And this is the shit that makes me feel broken. I can guarantee, based on the swiftness with which Evan reacts to any stimulus, that he’s got a properly functioning emotional brain, and I envy it. He responds on instinct. His analysis of his own feelings isn’t clinical. It demonstrates an intrinsic understanding of himself, and what I can say after all these years of being me is that I don’t understand myself—at least—I can’t understand myself when I try to see myself through another person’s eyes.
It doesn’t make me angry anymore. It makes me feel helpless. I know what I need on the most basic level, but when asked what Iwant? I never know what people mean when they ask that.
When I’m done with my shower and dressed, I go into the living room. Evan is lying on the couch, ass side up, petting Apollo who is stretched out on the floor below him. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt. No shoes or socks. I should have mentioned we were leaving the house. Now I’m distracted by his ass, and I reconsider. It would be too easy to slide those pants off and do all manner of things to that juicy peach of his.
“I’m headed to the farmer’s market,” I announce before I get too carried away with that thought.
He looks over his shoulder at me, hair falling attractively across his face. “Yeah?”
I nod.
He looks like he’s waiting for me to say something else, but my gaze slides down to his ass again. I need to get out of here. He’s tense. I’m horny. “You good?” I ask, trying to get him to fill in the blank.
I wasn’t with him last night. I was with Bailey. The debrief of my lunch appointment with Gray went long, and with everything that’s happened this week between Isaac, Evan, and me, I had a lot to talk about. She definitely had a lot to say, too. I’m looking forward to introducing her to Isaac so she can see what all the fuss is about. I asked her if, as a lesbian, she’d be able to tell, and she informed me that sex appeal is universal.
I guess I agree with that. Samuel and Calyx’s friends—Rachel and Priya—I understand their sex appeal even if I have no desire to have sex with them. Bailey says they’re not her type, but she understands the appeal, too.
“Where were you last night?” Evan finally asks.
“Bailey’s.”
