“Talking about it doesn’t help.”
“It can.”
“No! It can’t. It’s not psychological trauma, it’s physical. Focusing on it makes it worse. You asking me over and over and over makes it fucking worse, because you can’t do anything about it but you try, and it gets annoying very quickly.”
Even in the dark I can see the surprise on his face.
Shit. I shouldn’t have said the last part. Why did I say that?
“I don’t mean it’s annoying,” I say, even though I do. It’s annoying becauseI’mfrustrated that he wants so badly to do something but can’t. But I also don’t want to talk about itbecausehe can’t. I know it’s coming from a place of love when he asks me, and I absolutely love him for that when I think about it, but in the moment, yeah. It’s annoying. Especially right now, when all I want to do isnotfocus on the pain and just enjoy being with him.
“It’s okay,” he says, but I can hear the hurt in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m a cynical bitch, but I don’t mean thatyouannoy me. It’s the pain and I’m taking it out on you.” I kiss his lips. He kisses back, but it seems like an afterthought.
“You don’t have to be a cynical bitch with me. You can be a regular bitch and I’ll still love you.”
“You say that now, but, girl, just so you know—”
“Andrew.” His tone sounds like a warning. Like he wants me to stop joking around and be serious.
My cheeks burn and I feel guilty again. Silly, even. My boyfriend is scolding me like I’m a child. “It’s a defense mechanism.”
“I know it is.” He runs his fingers up my back. “You don’t need your defenses up around me.”
“Everyone needs their defenses up these days.” What the hell iswrong with me? “That was a joke, too. I’m sorry I can’t stop.”
“Try.” He sounds serious now.
I don’t know what to say. I know I don’t need to be defensive around him, but every day there’s more danger and despair and it feels like there’s no end in sight. Rocky Horror even said it—being queer is inherently dangerous, but so is the world now. For everyone. Is this how our lives are going to be now? Tiny moments of joy and then awfulness the rest of the time?
Because if it is, yes, I do need my defense mechanism. I need to be a cynical bitch who can laugh because otherwise I’ll go insane.
I put my forehead against Jamie’s, and even though my injured arm still hurts, I hold it against him. He’s going through the same things I am, but I don’t want to be a helpless, miserable shell—which is what I’ll become if I can’t joke about what scares me.
“Just talk to me,” Jamie says. He kisses me, and I realize silent tears are dripping from my nose. “And if I’m annoying you, then tell me, just don’t make it a joke.”
“You aren’t annoying me.” I sigh, but it turns into a sob. “And my arm hurts. So fucking bad. All the time it hurts, and it feels like it’s never going to stop. I’m so tired.”
He pulls me against his chest, squeezing me firmly but gently. It’s not just my arm that hurts. It’s everything. Every day. I’m so tired of being scared all the time. And I think he understands that—of course he does—because he whispers in my ear. “I know. I am, too. But we’ll be okay.” He repeats it over and over. And his whispers are the last things I hear before I finally fall asleep.
Jamison
THE PAST THREE DAYS HAVE BEEN THEeasiest we’ve had since... honestly, I can’t remember when. Maybe since my first day out of the hospital in the Keys. Andrew and I spent that day walking around our neighborhood, meeting new people—it was the day we met Daphne because she had to be the first one to gossip about us to everyone. Cara kept to herself most of the day, but the three of us had dinner on the dock behind our house.
It was the first day since my mom had died that I felt hopeful.
Reallyhopeful. Not just wishing for something good to happen, but actually having good things happen to us—like it was a bridge being built before our eyes. On the other side of that bridge was supposed to be comfort and safety, but the longer we were there, the more I realized both sides were the same.
It’s not that the Nomads are trustworthy—I think this is just how we live our lives now, with hesitation and caution. I trust them as much as I trusted the people back at the Keys. They’re just trying to survive, like us, and they’re going to do what they need todo. But it’s nice having others around to watch our backs—at least for a while.
Also the driving.
Gasoline doesn’t burn as efficiently when it’s old and stale, so we have to stop a lot more often to find fuel. It’s also helpful having so many people with us because when we come to a roadblock—like an overturned truck or disabled vehicle—we can work together and try to clear a path. Otherwise we backtrack and find a new road.
I also notice a change in Andrew. I can still see the pain in his eyes, and sometimes he’ll wince and pull his injured arm to his chest, but he’s calmer now. Once we’ve passed the sign welcoming us to South Carolina—“The Palmetto State”—he seems to relax a bit. And maybe I do, too.
We’re taking the day off from travel so Rocky Horror and a few others can go out in search of fuel. We still haven’t found another vehicle, so we’ve been pretty cramped in the two RVs. It also doesn’t help that for the past two days it’s been raining, and Rocky Horror, Andrew, a few others, and I have been traveling in the beds of the pickup trucks. There were ponchos and tarps for us to huddle under, but it’s been getting chillier as we’ve headed north.
