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Young-gi
Something’s wrong with Tommy.
It’s subtle, almost impossible to notice, but I notice everything about him, all the time, so of course I do. Ever since we had sex yesterday morning, he’s been…not really avoidant, because he’s been sticking close to my side. But his eyes slide away from mine too quickly, his bratty words feel hollow and distracted. He’s got something else on his mind.
Is it the blackmail? Perhaps.
But considering the timing…
An ugly sensation twists in my gut and I have no name for this emotion. But my mind is fixated on the idea that my experiencewith Tommy–my first time having sex with a man, the most incendiary experience of my life–might not have been as good for him as I originally thought. He isn’t acting like he wants another round.
All day yesterday, he was pensive. Last night he came into my room without any argument, like we both knew he was sleeping with me now, but he curled up against my side without a word. Today, he’s been putting on an act of normalcy, but I can tell the difference between his real brattiness and false bravado. He’s hiding something.
From me.
I can get better,I think to myself.If I wasn’t good enough, if I was disappointing, surely I can improve.
A plan of action levels me out, but my stomach still swirls with something I don’t know how to articulate. I’m staring right at him, but Tommy’s looking out the window of our limousine, staring at the rain and the nighttime city lights passing by, as we make our way through traffic to the fundraiser.
He usually lets me stare, but fidgets under it, like he’s letting me know he canfeelme.
Right now, he’s totally still. Lost in his thoughts. Like he can’t feel my eyes on him at all.
“What’s wrong?” I finally ask. It’s hard to even hear my voice over the pouring rain pounding on the car. It muffles the world around us, closing us in together, making this feel achingly intimate.
“Huh?” He blinks at me like he’s coming out of deep thoughts. “Oh, nothing. Nothing’s wrong, why?”
“You’re not acting like yourself.” The words almost hurt coming out of me. What is this emotion? This pain? Is this what it feels like to be insecure? To doubt myself?
To be afraid?
“I’m not?” He wrinkles his nose, sounding genuinely surprised. “Well nothing is wrong. I’m fine.”
“You’re quiet.”
“I can’t always be loud,” he scoffs, his eyes twinkling at me with sardonic mirth. It would be so easy to let this go, to let it slide, to believe him. I want to believe him. But even as emotion-blind as I am, I can spot patterns of behavior a mile away, and he’s not acting the same.
“You’re not being bratty.”
“Do I have to be?” he asks, his amusement fading into a soft frown. “Is that what you want from me, all of the time? Is that the only Tommy I can be when I’m with you?”
“No,” I’m getting frustrated with myself for not being able to put this into words. I’m making this sound like it’s his fault, like I’m pointing out a flaw. That’s not at all how I mean it. But I don’t know how to say what I feel. I can tell him what I’ve observed because that’s measurable, quantifiable. But for feelings?
I have no words at all.
“Then it’s fine, isn’t it?” he pushes. “If I can be bratty or quiet, if I can just be Tommy, and I’m telling you right now that nothing iswrong, can we drop it?”
His question is sharp, and I clench my hand into a fist at my side, hating the bile I can taste somewhere in my soul. “Of course.”
Tommy hesitates. He opens his mouth, shuts it. His eyes burn like they always do. He’s still himself; I can see him so clearly, right in front of me. But he decides not to talk to me. He turns away.
It feels like blood loss. I’m sick to my stomach.
I’ve always thought of Tommy as fire. He’s consuming and bright and painfully beautiful. But right now, he might as wellbe smoke. I can see him, taste him, breathe him in…but he’s slipping through my fingers.
Beads of sweat break out under my dress shirt and suit jacket, and I thumb the air conditioner controls to full blast. Why am I sweating? It’s not that warm in here. Why is my heart beating stronger, faster?
