“Then let’s not waste any time.”
I must admit, I enjoy these exchanges with Dax.
Fun.
Playful.
Goofy.
Veryus.
We head into the room with the Van Gogh display. “We only get ten of his pieces here,” I say, “and only for a few weeks. Then they’ll head down to the High in Atlanta. It’s amazing they’re able to get them here at all, so I’ll take what I can get.”
I spotThe Courtyard of the Hospital at Arlesand head right to it.
“You’ve probably heard about how he had a mental breakdown. This was when he was hospitalized. Several of these are from that period when he was struggling. It’s incredible how you can be trapped in such dark places in your mind, yet create such beautiful work. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because you’redesperately grasping for it, looking for some kind of beauty to cling to. Something to make it all bearable.”
As soon as the words are out, I realize I’m not talking about Van Gogh. There’s a sinking feeling in my belly, but when Dax grips my hand gently, it helps soothe the discomfort.
“You good?” Dax asks, clearly picking up on my sudden mood change.
“I’m fine.”
I don’t want to fuck up our date, so I shake out of it, doing my best to pack my bullshit down. I continue telling him about Van Gogh and his career, managing to enjoy the rest of our date, before I drive Dax back to my place.
I can’t even wait to get him inside my place before my hands are all over him right outside the door to my apartment, our lips locked. He’s still got the taste of mint on his tongue from when he popped one in while we were at the museum.
Despite the brief hiccup earlier, I find myself feeling much better with him.
After I finally get him into my place, stealing a few more kisses, I say, “I’m not so bad at this date thing, am I?” I sound about as cocky as I feel right now as I lean back, but just a few centimeters. Like I don’t want to pull any farther away from him than that.
“I guess you can be taught.” His eyes are bright, full of that vibrancy I’m used to seeing around the guys. It makes me reflect on something within myself.
“What?” he asks, catching me off guard.
“I thought I was difficult to read.”
“It’s getting easier.”
I consider telling him what I was thinking but hesitate, which he must notice too, since he says, “Whatever it is, you know you can tell me.”
“I don’t want to ruin a perfectly good date.”
“I have a feeling it’s not gonna ruin anything.”
I’m quiet for a moment, realizing I don’t hear the screaming in my head or feel like this pain will overwhelm me into a panic attack, and I know why.
“It’s interesting,” I observe. “Because even though it hurts, it’s a little easier to think about her when you’re here with me. Doesn’t feel so weighty and all-consuming. I know I haven’t told you much…”
“I’m here for whatever you want to talk about.”
It’s all right on the tip of my tongue. Those things I’ve beaten down, that I’ve restrained myself from telling anyone. Those things I know would crush Dad if he ever knew I’d uttered them. But being with Dax like this, feeling so safe, I open my mouth, wondering if anything will even come out, and say, “Mom was the one who encouraged my work. She noticed early on that I had a knack for drawing and painting. She tried to get Dad to appreciate it, but he doesn’t think like that. It’s hard not to think about her when art’s involved, which is something I’m used to because that’s my life now, but then the Van Gogh stuff along with it… I thought about how much pain she must have been in, but she didn’t have an outlet like Dad or I did. It was all trapped in her head.”
I’m quiet, that inner struggle starting up once again, but I push past it, keep going. “I’ve seen a lot of movies and shows where people have a loved one who’s clearly struggling, and they are depressed or anxious and grappling with something, and maybe they don’t help and should have, maybe they try and it works or doesn’t, but with Mom, I didn’t have a clue. Dad didn’t have a clue. No one did. Outwardly, she was bright and excited about the world. She could light up a room with a smile, and I know that’s cliché as fuck, but it’s true. Sometimes I run through the weeks before it happened, and I think,What did I miss?What didn’t I see?There must’ve beensomething. I feel guilty for not catching on that something was wrong.”
My words are softer, gentler than usual. More like a scared child than the guy I show the rest of the world, who seems like he’s always about to get into a fistfight.
Dax rests his hand on my cheek, stroking gently. It’s hard to understand how he can possibly know that’s exactly what I need right now.
