He just stares straight ahead and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Maybe he’s wishing he could be holding mine, too. “Yeah, I don’t know what happened. I was freaked out, and then I was fine, and then I got freaked out again.”There’s an edge of anger in his voice that I know all too well. It’s that impatience he has with himself sometimes, that frustration that he can’t always handle things the way he wants to.
It breaks my heart, and I wish I knew how to make him feel better. How to make him see how incredible he is, no matter how panicky crowds—or even relationships—make him.
“I don’t think anyone could tell but me,” I say. “And probably only because I like looking at you a lot.”
Now he turns to me and gives me a small smile, and I feel like at least I helped a tiny bit. I wish it was more. I wish I could always be more.
“I don’t think I slept great last night,” he says with a shrug, as we pass a booth with some gamer artwork done with spray paint on huge canvases.
I know he didn’t. I heard him tossing and turning throughout the night. But I’m not sure I should tell him, or if he’ll feel bad that he kept me awake. And also because I might confess how desperately I wanted to crawl under the covers with him and cuddle up and feel his body relax against me.
Would that have helped?
I’m not sure. It definitely wouldn’t have feltcasual.
Before I can think of how to respond to that without giving away my near-miss at becoming his late-night bed partner, he suddenly stops.
“Do you really want to deal with dating me?” He asks this as if it’s been a question plaguing him, just waiting there to burst out in the middle of this packed exhibition hall next to the live-actionMinecraft.The crowd swirls around us as we stand frozen in the pathway.
“What do you mean?” I feel my own burst of panic. Does he want to give up the plan? I know it’s stressful for him, but—
“I’m a mess.” He runs a hand through his pink hair, staring down at the floor. “I’m a total mess, and even if I can get over the relationship stuff, I’m still going to have panic attacks and anxiety. It’s just a part of me, and it’s not going away.” He swallows. “I hate to put you through allthisand then still keep putting you through allthat.”
Now my heart really aches.
I don’t care that you have panic attacks and anxiety, I want to say.You’re Brendan and my best friend and I love you, no matter what.
But is that the wrong thing to say? Does it sound callous, like I’m saying I don’t care that he’s suffering?That I don’t care when he hurts?
I feel like I’m on some tightrope, and I’m not sure whether there’s a net below to catch me if I fall.
Maybe that’s the way he feels. Maybe he doesn’t know if I’ll be there to catch him (Though it’s a good thing we’re not talking literally here, because the dude would squash me like a Kung Pao Pancake.)
“Hey.” I tug at his shirt to bring him closer. I’m conscious of all the people around us, enough that I don’t wrap my arms around his waist like I want to, but I don’t think anyone’s paying attention to us. Not when people wearing cardboard boxes on their heads are competing in a high-stakesMinecraftbuilding competition fifteen feet away from us. “I’ve seen your panic attacks and anxiety before. I’m not afraid of it.”
“But you shouldn’t have to put up with it. Especially from a—” He cringes, his face flushing, and I know he was going to say “boyfriend,” but couldn’t. He glares at the ceiling in frustration.
I’m not sure I can talk him out of thinking that he’s someone I have to “put up with,” even though that’s not even remotely the case. I decide on a different tactic. “What kind of stuff—beyond the relationship, I mean—do you think will be triggery?”
“I don’t know. Lots of things. New people, still. New situations.” His mouth twists, and he scuffs his sneaker on the concrete floor. “My dad will be getting out of jail eventually, and I’m not sure how I’m going to deal with that.”
In a stroke of spectacularly bad timing, theMinecraftchallenge crowd around us starts cheering and whooping.
Brendan doesn’t even seem to notice.
My breath catches. Brendan almost never talks about his dad, not even to me. Probably anything he needs to say about the bastard he says to his mom—Brendan and his mom are super close, and she’s awesome—but I get the feeling he doesn’t exactly go out of his way to talk about it with her, either.
“Do you have any idea when that’ll happen?” I ask.
Brendan shrugs. “He’s still got another fifteen years or so on his sentence, but he’s been up for parole already, so I don’t know.” His lips press together tightly.
“You don’t have to see him, though, right?”
“No. I mean, I definitely don’t want to. But just knowing he’s out there . . .”There’s this haunted look in Brendan’s blue eyes that chills me.
I decide I don’t care who might see and reach for his hand. He looks surprised, but then smiles again—not the full, wide Brendan grin that makes my heart swell, but still a genuine smile. And his grip on my hand is as tight as mine on his.
“I want to be there for you,” I say. “When that happens, and . . .”Always. Just always.“And anything else that you’re worried about,” I finish, because I’m a huge freaking chicken. Also because telling him I never want to leave his side is soooo not casual.
