When I lean into him, he puts his arms around me, too. I tuck myself up against his warm bare chest, safe in those arms. Hoping that he can feel just as safe in mine.
But just holding him doesn’t help with the immediate problem. Which is that unless I want to bitch-slap every last one of the Not-Wives for skeeving on him, I need to figure out a way to make it clear that we aren’t putting up with this anymore.
“Did I do okay?” I ask. “Asking you how you feel, but not telling you?”
Jason sighs, and I’m worried I’m about to start that argument again. We still don’t have the lava lamp, but we have to talk about it. I know we do. “Yes,” he says. “And I overreacted before. I just really don’t know what to say when you’ve already decided how I feel, especially if you’ve decided it’ssubconscious. It’s like you think you know better than I do. What am I supposed to say to that?”
“I was trying toaskif that’s how you feel subconsciously, so we could talk about the possibility.”
“But itisn’ta possibility,” he insists. “And when I said that, you argued with me, so I really don’t think that was your intent.”
We are getting back into this, but neither of us is yelling, at least. “I still don’t get why you’re allowed to know my intent when I’m not allowed to know how you feel.”
“It’s like . . . Your intent shows in your actions, right? If you hadn’t already decided how I felt, you would have asked once, and I would have said no, and you would have been like ‘Oh thank god,’ and that would have been the end of it. But you have to keep asking and asking if I’m sure, and claiming that it’s subconscious, because you’ve already decided that’s how I feel.”
That makes sense, but I don’t think that’s how I really feel about it. If I truly believed that there was no hope, I wouldn’t still be here, trying. Jason says intent shows in actions, and a lot of his actions show that he loves me, that he wants to be with me. “Maybe I’m justafraidthat’s how you feel.”
He considers that for a minute. “But wouldn’t you be relieved, then, when I tell you it isn’t?”
“If I was sure you meant it.”
“That’s what I mean. You’re not willing to listen to what I actually say.”
“Okay. But sometimes what you sayisn’texactly how you feel, right? Like you say you’re not mad at your dad, and I know this is going to make you angry again, but damn it, Jason, you are obviously mad at your dad.” I tense up.That was really pushing it, and now I’m sure we’re headed for another huge fight.
But Jason just hangs his head. “Yeah, I know. You’re right. I’m mad at my dad.”
I blink at him, and Jason gives me a warning look that tells me not to press.
I can’t help it, though. “You admitted that.That’s a really big deal.”
“Shut up,” he says, but I can tell he doesn’t totally mean it. I rest my head on his shoulder.
“So you’re mad at your dad,” I say.
“Yep.” He must know I want him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.
“Could you . . . speak to that?”
Jason groans.
“I know, right?” I say. “So awkward.”
Jason rubs his forehead and looks up at the top of the twisted tree. “That thing you said about him making me feel ashamed?That felt true.”
“Yeah?” I’m afraid to say more, because I don’t want to shut down this conversation, but I’m also afraid he’s going to make me pull every little thing out of him. I get how hard this is for him to talk about, and I just want to handle this exactly the right way. My track record at that is not great. But it turns out I don’t have to, because Jason keeps talking. “I’ve never been good enough for him. Nothing I do, nothing I am. And yeah, I feel ashamed about that. Like, I know it’s about him and not about me, because he did it to my mom and my sisters, too, and they’re awesome. But I still . . .feellike shit about it, you know?”
“Do you think that’s why you’re afraid of rejection?” I ask. I want to tell him that I’m really asking, not telling, but maybe he’s right. Maybe I am pretty sure how he feels about this. “Like, he left you, and rejected you for who you are and what you do, and that set up this idea that everyone’s going to do that to you?”
Jason groans again. “That sounds frighteningly plausible, and I hate it.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.”
“I know. But I’m sorry he hurt you so bad, and that you spent so long worrying I’ll do the same.”
Jason shrugs, and I think maybe he’s not ready to talk about exactly what that means about us.
