“Didn’t— Armand, he definitely did.You ...you were a kid.”I was hysterical.Surely this was what hysteria felt like.“Younger thanSkylerwhen—”
A realization knocked the wind out of me.
The video.
Armand, dancing at a club, dressed like aschoolboy.Armand had said he hadn’t come up with the character.“Schoolboy Lolito.That was his idea, wasn’t it.”
The words had barely left my mouth when Armand turned completely around, his back shaking.
All the times I’d wondered what Armand wasn’t telling me—the tiptoeing his friends had done, avoiding something, somethingbig—I’d never imagined anything like this.I’d never imagined that what was being concealed wasabuse.
I took a ragged breath, easing my way around his hunched body, seeking his face.He was holding a hand over his mouth, skin shiny with sweat.“None—” I tried, then started again, “None of what happened, what Jean did to you, was your fault.You know that, right?”
Armand huffed incredulously, lowering his hand and actually rolling his eyes.“Aye, can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that line.It’s not my fault I did drugs and partied instead of finishing uni, and it’s definitely not my fault I kept going back to him.He neverforcedme to do anything.”He wrapped both his arms around his middle.“I was there, love, Irememberit.I remember making those choices.Being weak.And I wasn’t a child by the end of it.I was well into my twenties.”
He’d have been something like twenty-two when their “relationship”—I hated eventhinkingof it as a consensual situation—ended.Five years.Longer than it usually takes to go through college.
I wet my lips, distantly wondering if my voice sounded as small to him as it did to me.“You could’ve told me that.All of it.Why didn’t you?”
Armand’s face crumpled.“I was afraid you wouldn’t want me anymore,” he whispered.
I barked a shocked laugh.“Wouldn’t want you?Armand, oh my god.”I wanted to stay here, in the bubble of sympathy and understanding for what Armand had gone through, but my gorge was rising, everything snowballing into something ugly and terrifying.How was I still so naive, such a bad judge of character, how could I not have seen what Jean was?“You let me go out to lunch with him and talk about my art and— Oh my god, the only reason this exhibition is happening is because a creepy pedophile liked my photos.”
“He’snotthe only reason this is happening,” Armand insisted, though I could barely hear him.“He had one little connection.That’s how he works—he makes you think all the good things about you arehisand allyouhave left are the parts that are shit.”
“Exactly!”Flashes filled my mind with every time I’d mentioned Jean—every time Armand had had an opportunity to intervene but had chosen not to.“You didn’t want to spare me that?You didn’t want towarnme?”Don’t cry, Barclay, don’t you dare cry.I curled my arms around my chest.I had to know, I needed him to tell me.“Do you ...”I struggled to inhale.“Do you care about me atall?”
The blood drained from Armand’s face.The question hung in the air as Armand stared, mouth dropped open, chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled for words.
“I— Well, I thought youknewI’m arse over— What I mean to say is—” He took a stuttering breath and licked his lips, looking up at me with wide and terrified eyes.“I’m in love with you.”
My breath caught in my throat.My head buzzed with a thundering dirge ofnot like this, not like this.A million miles away, my mind informed me that his words had meaning, and I should respond.Instead, the only words I could access were, “Are you?Really?”
Armand pulled the knuckles he’d been biting from his mouth.“W-what do you mean?O-of course I am.”
My mouth was on autopilot, my hands ice-cold.Bitterness flooded my throat.“The way you choose to show that is by letting me socialize with a fuckingpedophilefor a month without saying a word—”
“He is not,” Armand growled, eyes narrowing, “a pedophile.”
“Why are you defending him?You were a child, and it wasn't your fault, but you can't keep something like that bottled up.It’ll eat you alive.You need to talk to someone about it—”
“I do talk to people about it,” he snapped, voice crisper than I’d ever heard it.“Every week, actually.”
I was going to throw up.“But notme, right?I’m not worth telling.”
We stared at each other for seconds, minutes, years.Then Armand inclined his head and swallowed.“Okay, you wanna talk?Let’s talk.What happened last night?”
Blood pounded in my ears.“I— What do you mean?”We’re not talking about this, we arenottalking about this ...
“The cake, love.”Armand’s eyes softened.“The purging.The living off of celery sticks and counting carbs, and needing to ‘deserve’ to eat.”
Purging?No, that wasn’t right.That was one time, an extenuating circumstance brought on by anxiety and bad decisions.I’d been slacking and not eating well because of the stress, but I was handling it.Armand was staring expectantly, like he was uncovering a long-kept secret, like he’d stripped me naked.
I pressed my back against the sink and crossed my arms.“What are you talking about?I’m conscientious about what I eat.What’s wrong with that?”
Armand ran a hand through his already massively disheveled hair.“Half my friends aredancers, love, and I know this isn’t the time or the place, but I—I’m starting to think I’m not going to get another chance.”He breathed shakily.“You have an eating disorder, Lucas.It’s not so different from what I deal with.There’s the same kind of meetings and rehab.You needhelp.”
“No—” I shook my head, skin prickling.“I don’t have an eating disorder.I’m trying to take care of myself and stayhealthy.Maybe I overdo it sometimes, but—”
