“Finn.” I raise my eyes to his. “I have a damnbuttplugin. Can I have a minute to deal with it?”
“Fuck.” He wraps his arms around himself like he’s trying to protect himself. From me… I did this.
I pick my leggings off the floor and scramble into them. I can make it home with the stupid plug in. I drove all the way here, after all. It’s not going to kill me. Leaving him here like this might, though.
It might killhimtoo, by the looks of it.
Why did I rush him? I promised myself at the symphony, that I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t assume I knew what was best for him. I wouldn’t push and push and try to fix him. He’s not a glass fucking dish that got dropped. He’s ahumanbeing. It’s a little bit more complicated than some glue and good intentions.
“The plug doesn’t matter,” I tell him, edging closer until I can set my hand on his. “I’ll go. It’s okay. I’m sorry that I said too much. That’s on me, not you. I don’t want you to do this.” I stroke his knuckles with my finger. “Please don’t. I know that has to hurt. I can see why you’d want to ground yourself, but you can breathe through this. Processing trauma and feeling too much all at once… that sucks. You’re not ready and I- I went too fast. I don’t want to leave you like this. Alone. Not if you’rescared, or if what you really need by telling me to go is to ask me to stay, but to shut the hell up and listen.”
His fingers slowly relax underneath mine. I suck in my first real breath since Shadow panicked and pulled away.
“I don’t want to be like this,” he snaps, anger palpable. “I don’t want to go to therapy or listen to all that bullshit, or go outside and touch fucking grass. That’s dumb. It doesn’t work. Don’t you think I’ve tried it?”
“I do think so.”
“Nothing’s gonna fix me. I’m not going to be some pretty shiny object that you can show off and be proud of. I’m not going to be normal. I’ve never been normal. I can’t give you what you want or what you need. I can’t even come close. And you know what? I fucking hate myself for it because I want to.”
He stops then. I’m about to say something, anything, to try and make this better. Then he speaks again, his voice quiet. “I don’t want to run. I want to figure out how to take a goddam breath like the rest of the world does. I want to be more than what I am. I want to stop hiding. It’s me doing it to me. You’re right. I want to punish myself. I hate being in my head, but I don’t want to get out of it. I hate who I am, but I’ve made no real effort to change. I’m so tired of myself. Just so tired. I’m exhausted, and that’s even more pathetic.”
Fuck. I don’t know what to do. The things I want to say are going to sound like a therapist. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything. Maybe I should just listen.
I meet his haunted, beautiful eyes so he knows that I’mhere. “I hear you. I do. I can wait until you do the books and I’ll drive you back home. I can stay, if you want someone close whileyou sleep, or I can go. We could go to my place, no expectations. Just a snack, a cup of coffee, or sleep. If you want to talk, I’ll listen. If not, that’s okay.”
He throws up his hands, pacing a few steps away from me. “I’m sorry. I was freaking out. I’m not gonna do anything stupid if you leave me alone. And- god, I’m sorry for what you saw. I don’t normally do that. I channel my rage and other shit into working out or going for a ride.”
“I’m sorry for backing you into a corner.”
“No. You didn’t.”
“I’m sorry for not respecting your boundaries or listening to you.”
He shakes his head. “You have no idea how much I need for someone to call me on my own bullshit.”
“It’s not all bullshit.”
“No, but some of it is.”
“Will you let me drive you home? I don’t want you riding when you’re upset.”
That same mean smile wants to curl over his lips, but he catches himself and forces them into a flat line. “I ride all the time, especially when I’m upset. It helps.”
“Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I might not be sure about some shit, but I’m sure about that.”
He looks like he wants to say more. Like he doesn’t want to say anything ever again. He looks like he’s staring down the impossible but still wants to reach for it. He’s allowing me tosee all of his thoughts play out in one of the rare, unguarded moments that I will treasure forever.
“Will you- uh- come over later? Or is it too late?”
“It’s not too late.”
“To do what you said? To talk?”
“I’d like that.”
Opening up like this is a thousand times more intimate than making a plan to hook up. Sex is great. It’s a special kind of trust and intimacy. But there are other kinds of soul-to-soul.
