“You don’t have to tell me.” She shifts on the bed and flips off the light. I hear shuffling, which I assume is her taking off her pants.
And there goes the boner again.
The bed creaks. “I know you probably have enough information to find the treasure without me now. And I wouldn’t hold it against you if you snuck out and went looking for it by yourself. I really wouldn’t. Coming face-to-face with bones and an old cannonball—sorry,mortar ball…spies hiding in my museum…my ex trashing my house…raccoons launching a terror campaign… This is a little more than I signed up for. I know you like to take care of people. That you’re keeping me as safe as you can. Which is very nice. But you don’t have to take care of me. Even by letting me come along on the hunt. I’ll be okay. I’ve been hurt before and gotten this far in life pretty happy overall. I’ll keep going.”
Is she—is she breaking up with me? “What are you talking about?”
“Just—life’s weird, and sometimes you end up having to make fast friends with someone that you know won’t be around in your life forever, and it would be nice if, after this is all settled, and the sheriff finds Patrick and you find your treasure, if you ever come back to town, if we can just, I don’t know, say hi and be normal and maybe play darts or pool again. Not every time. Just every once in a while. Like super casual friends.”
Goddammit.
I do not want to besuper casual friendswith Sloane.
I want?—
Nope.
Can’t want.
Because the bare, undeniable truth is that I don’t date because I don’t talk about Denver.
If I’m not willing to tell someone what I did when I was at my absolute lowest, then I have no business having relationships.
You don’t keep secrets from the people who matter most.
From the people you’d theoretically raise kids with. Share a life with.
It’s why my last relationship ended over ten years ago, and why I’ve never tried another since.
Because I didn’t trust her with my darkest secret.
Maybe that’s why I like Sloane so much.
She’s had the courage to face her demons.
She didn’t cause them herself, but she’s worked hard to get over them. To live a happy life despite what’s likely a constant nagging in her head.
The shit you learn in childhood—it sticks. It gets in there before you’re in control of your own brain, and it doesn’t let its claws go.
“How did you learn to let the guilt go?” I ask in the darkness.
“TheI’m going to hell for breathingguilt?”
“Yes.”
“Distance from my grandmother. Helping save people’s lives at work. Being there for victims’ families when we couldn’t. Realizing how big the world is and how small I am. Making friends with good people who were happy. Watching them make mistakes and forgive themselves for it. Joining a book club that picked the right nonfiction book about shame exactly when I needed to read it. It wasn’t just one thing. It’s been many, many things over many, many years.”
“Your guilt wasn’t your fault.”
“The overbearing, soul-crushing guilt? No, it wasn’t. I’m not perfect, but when I finally realized that was okay, it made it easier to own up to my own mistakes, ask for forgiveness, and truly forgive myself for them too.”
“You still battle the demons?”
“Not as often as I used to. Distance helps. Nigel being here, Grandma being mad at me…that doesn’t help. But they’re the problem. Even when I don’t feel it, I remind myself of that. I don’t owe them what they want for me. I owe me what I want for me. Good people aren’t perfect people. Good people are imperfect people who do their best and give other people grace and the gift of freedom to be who they were meant to be.”
Tell her. Tell her what you did.
I want to.
