Intimacy isn’t my strong suit. Things like this, being naked when someone is clothed, would normally make me extremely uncomfortable. But not with them.
Julian turns toward me. “Sorry you have to wait like this,” he says, nodding toward the large towel barely covering my bare legs. “I can grab you something from my closet.”
Deciding to be bold for once, I shake my head. “I’m not uncomfortable with it if you’re not.”
He swallows. “I’m definitely not.”
Julian seems to be more casual than normal. Still exquisitely put together. He has on a pair of jeans, which I didn’t even know he owned. His hair is loose and wavy over his forehead. There are no rings on his fingers, no jewelry around his neck. It’s just Julian.
With a cup of bad coffee in his hands, he sits on the couch next to where I’m curled up. His bare feet rest on the ottoman in front of the couch, and then we’re bathed in silence.
But it’s not awkward. It’s comfortable.
I rest my head along the back of the couch, staring at him softly. I’m suddenly remembering the night in my apartment and then the incident at the restaurant yesterday. “Can I ask you a question?” I say.
“Of course.”
“Why were you so mean to me that day we met?”
He winces as if this question has physically hurt him somehow. Slightly pulling away, he makes a contemplative expression as he sets his coffee on the table. “I don’t know,” he mutters quietly. “To be fair, I don’t feel like I’ve been very nice to anyone. In this specific example, you’re not special.”
“Why?” I ask.
He gives a lazy shrug. “Have you ever met my sister?”
“She happens to be my best friend,” I reply with a smirk.
“Yeah. You ever noticed how nice she is?”
“Yes.”
“What about my mother? You ever met her?”
“An angel,” I reply.
“And guess what? My dad?”
“A saint?”
“Yep.”
“So why not you?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m not mean. I’m really not.”
“I believe you,” I respond, “which is why I’m so confused.”
“I have no tragic story to share. I’ve never been heartbroken. I’ve never even really been hurt. There’s nothing in my past that would indicate why I feel so…”
“Angry?” I ask.
“Scared.” he replies. “I don’t know how to let anyone close without imagining how they’ll leave me. It’s like…if I’m not in control of everything—the conversation, the room, myself—then something terrible will happen. I don’t even know what. Just…something. So I keep everyone at arm’s length. It feels safer that way.”
I freeze, deliberating over his words and suddenly seeing Julian in a new light. Searching my memory, I try to recall if Amelia has ever shared with me that her brother struggles with anxiety. Does she even know?
Doeshe?
Everything starts to make so much sense. His need for control. His fear of letting people in and of being vulnerable. Constantly overthinking and second-guessing.
