Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
“Ready?”
Trevor’s voice pulls me out of my daze as he grabs his keys and swings the front door open. I nod, glancing back at Neville as he makes his way towards one of his beds in the living room of Trevor’s house.
“He’ll be ok,” Trevor assures me. “He’ll probably have one more nap before he’s ready to keep me up all night.” He chuckles, but it does nothing to ease my worry.
And it’s not just Neville I’m worried about. I’m worried about everything that tonight is going to bring.
I follow Trevor to his Jeep, eyeing my car parked next to his. It would be so easy to jump in and just drive home. Back to my safe space alone, in front of my computer, where it’s quiet.
But I don’t. I get in Trevor’s Jeep, gripping the seat belt tight as I try to keep myself together as he drives us up the road. But the closer we get, the more nervous I feel.
I wanted to do this because I want to know more about him, and know him . And I feel like I want to be a part of his world. He intrigues me in a way I’ve never felt before, as he pulls me out of the safety of my routines, and at the same time, brings me a sense of calm no one ever has before. So when he asked me to meet his friends, I felt like I could. Because he squeezed my hand and held me, and he let me be anxious.
He doesn’t judge, and he doesn’t tell me to get over it. He doesn’t tell me I’m too sensitive, and he’s not afraid of me.He makes me feel safe. And he makes me feel like I can do things.
But right now, I’m not so sure.
The Jeep slows to a stop as Trevor parks, then turns to me with soft eyes. “You ok?” he asks quietly.
My hands fidget in my lap, and all I can do is nod. Though I’m not sure if I’m convincing either of us.
The light outside is quickly fading as evening takes hold, and the soft glow from the dashboard creates a comforting space inside the Jeep. The outside world feels like it’s too much, and too busy… and I wish we could just stay in this dimly lit, quiet bubble, where everything feels manageable.
Trevor studies me for a moment, before he holds his hand out, palm up, just like he did the other day. I stare at it, remembering the warmth of his skin against mine, and the way he held on tight, helping me focus when my mind was spinning. Slowly, I reach for him, feeling that warmth return as our fingers intertwine. The pressure of his hand squeezing mine sends a ripple of calm through me, and I release a breath.
“I’m ok,” I say quietly.
And his soft smile is like a quiet reassurance that maybe I can be.
But as soon as we step out of the Jeep, my heart pounds again, faster with every step that brings us closer to the pub. Trevor takes my hand again, and I grip it tight. So tight, that I wonder if I’m hurting him. But he doesn’t flinch, and he just holds on.
When he lets go to open the door to the pub, I’m surprised by how much I miss the feeling of him. And as we step inside, I wish he never let go.
A wall of noise, lights, and movement hits me the moment we enter, and immediately, it’s pressing down on me. The hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, thumping music, and the sharp scrape of chairs against the floor are all competing for airtime, each growing louder by the second as they demand attention. My gaze sweeps over the space as I take in people moving about between tables, TVs flashing over the bar, and busy walls full of photos and bright signs. It all just continues to grow in intensity, filling my head until it’s throbbing. And I fight against every urge to turn around and just leave.
“Arthur?” Trevor’s voice cuts through the chaos inside me, and I turn to him. He eyes me warily, and I hate that he’s worried. I also hate that I’m so worried, and struggling with something that seems so easy for everyone else.
“They’re over there,” he says, tilting his head towards a group seated around a table near the middle of the pub. But his voice is tinged with uncertainty.
I just nod, trying my best to keep my face neutral and not show just how much I’m panicking.
Trevor gives me one more cautious look before he turns to lead me to the table. I follow, pushing my glasses up my nose and shoving my hands deep into the pocket of my hoodie as I try to keep them still. My fingers curl into fists, and I release a quiet hum, desperate for anything to help calm me down. But my stomach is in knots and my breaths are shallow, as every sight and sound feels like it’s suffocating me.
When we approach the table, Trevor reaches out to take my hand again, squeezing hard.
And everything lets up, just enough for me to take in his smile and pull in a deep breath.
“Hey, guys,” Trevor says, turning his smile to his friends. “This is Arthur.”
Three sets of eyes land on me, and I quickly look between them. One looks gruff, one looks oddly happy, and one looks… tired.
“This is Mike,” Trevor says, pulling out a chair for me and gesturing to the happy one. “We’ve known each other since undergrad. And he’s an ecologist at the conservation centre.”
Mike’s smile somehow grows even wider as his eyes dart between me and Trevor. His light brown, almost blond, hair is a dishevelled mess, and his blue eyes shine bright. “I love this,” he says.
My brow furrows as I glance around. He loves what? The pub?
“And this is Greg,” Trevor says, gesturing to the stoic-looking one who gives me a curt nod. “He’s a netgunner on our research team. Best one at the centre.”
Greg looks like he’s straight out of the military, with his short-cropped hair and rigid posture. Which is an interesting look next to Mike, with his wild appearance and goofy grin.
“And this,” Trevor draws my attention to the guy on my other side, “is Jason.”
Jason gives me a smile and offers his hand. I stare at it for a moment before shaking it quickly, then place my hand back in my lap. His hair is dark and curly, and his dark eyes are ringed in shadows.
“We all play hockey together, and usually head out for a bike ride or hike most weekends,” Trevor says, leaning back in his chair and slinging his arm over the back of mine. Then he smirks at Jason. “But someone has been slacking off.”
Jason scoffs. “Slacking, my ass. I have a newborn who never sleeps.”
Mike also scoffs. “Man, every time I see that kid, he’s sleeping. Aren’t you supposed to sleep when they sleep?”
“Oh my god,” Jason mutters, shaking his head. “You know nothing about babies.”
But Mike just shakes his head and nudges Greg with his elbow. “That’s totally the way to do it right? Tell him.”
“No,” Greg says simply.
I watch them, a bit fascinated by the exchange as they go back and forth a few more times, with Mike insisting that Greg convince Jason he knows what he's talking about. It’s almost like they’re speaking in code, as their words bounce off each other in ways I can’t quite follow. It’s Jason’s baby, why does Mike think he knows what he should do? And why is Greg in the middle, acting like some kind of translator? None of it fits, and I feel the familiar frustration building. Their laughter seems to signal some sort of shared understanding, while I sit here, unable to crack the code that continues to stay out of my reach.
Then suddenly, Mike turns to me. “So I hear you’re a photographer.”
“Uh…” I nod slowly, very aware of everyone’s eyes on me. The sound of laughter from a nearby table grabs my attention, and my head involuntarily turns towards it. The pub door swings open and shut, and the sound of voices and utensils clattering on plates mixes with the pulsing of music in the background.
Then a waiter appears at our table, setting coasters down in front of each of us. “What can I get you?”
The sound of the pub grows even louder, drowning out their voices as everyone goes around the table to place their drink order. I still didn’t answer Mike’s question. But now the waiter is here… and I still need to answer him. Will he ask ag ain? Do I tell him when the waiter leaves? Will he even remember the question, or will he move on?
The sound of the door opening and closing once again draws my gaze to the other side of the pub, and I watch as a group of people all stand up from a table to leave.
“Sir?”
My eyes snap up to the waiter. He eyes me curiously, like he’s waiting for something. The buzzing in my head becomes louder as my hands grip the sides of my chair, and I try to resist the intense pull to get up and leave.
Trevor leans forward, catching my gaze. “You like IPA?”
I look into his soft eyes, pull in a deep breath, and nod.
He smiles gently at me, then nods to the waiter. “Same as me.”
“Be back in a bit,” the waiter says, then he takes off.
“So, Arthur, what’s your favourite animal to shoot?” Mike leans forward, his face lit up like he can barely contain himself.
My heart hammers in my chest as all eyes once again land on me, and I feel myself retreating into the familiar, safe space of my mind. A desperate urge rises to escape this feeling, and I try my hardest to slip my mask in place. The one I need to wear when I’m forced to make small talk, so I can pass as a person who somewhat knows how to be a part of society.
But I hate this feeling even more. I don’t want to be forced into it. I want to be able to do this… for Trevor.
I should be able to do this.
My gaze drops to the table, finding a patch of light reflected off the surface, cutting through the darkness around it. It’s jagged, with sharp edges where the brightness fades into shadow, and it immediately holds my attention. I fixate on it, watching the way it shifts and moves, my eyes following its subtle path like it’s my only lifeline as it creates a fragile sense of order in the chaos inside me .
“Birds,” I say, trying my hardest to let go of the first question, which I still didn’t answer. I know he knows I’m a photographer, and I know I don’t need to answer it… but… he asked. And I didn’t answer. It’s incomplete, hanging in the air around us, continuing to gnaw at me as it waits for completion.
“Arthur’s a birdwatcher too,” Trevor says, his voice gently drawing me back to the table. “And he’s an amazing photographer. He takes incredible photos of anything from landscapes to squirrels in trees.”
I abandon the light spot to look at him, and catch his smile. And for a moment, everything softens. The relentless thumping in my chest eases, and the pain in my head dims. The corner of my lips start to tug into a small smile as I think of the quiet of the woods, and the calm I felt with him as we looked for the Black-throated Blue Warbler. And when I took a picture of the squirrel… and then him. He still doesn’t know I took that photo of him. And he doesn’t know about a few other photos from our hike this past weekend either.
The waiter returns, setting our beers down in front of us, effectively snapping me out of the comforting memory. Immediately, my focus returns to the light spot on the table as I try to slow my breathing while some kind of exchange happens with the waiter about a plate of nachos for the table.
“That’s really cool, Arthur,” Jason says from my right. “Do you have your own business?”
I nod, not trusting myself to look up. The questions keep coming, and each time I’m thrust back into the overwhelm, I feel myself losing grip on my ability to find words. And if I lose that completely, I know I won’t come back from it. I can’t let that happen.
A beat of silence settles over the table and Trevor shifts in his seat as he takes a sip of his beer. I realize I haven’t even looked at mine yet, so I quickly pick it up and take a drink .
“Yeah,” Trevor says cheerily, with a subtle undertone of encouragement. “He has a lot of big clients. National Geographic, Ducks Unlimited … He’s really talented.”
"No fucking way," Mike chuckles. “Damn, Artie, that’s awesome.”
My forehead scrunches, and I quickly flick my eyes up to him. Artie? That’s not my name.
Mike’s eyebrows lift and his eyes dart between me and Trevor. “Sorry,” he says slowly then shrugs with a smile. “I shorten everyone’s names.” He gestures around the table. “G, Trev, Jace. You never go by Art or Artie?”
I shake my head, shifting my gaze to the wall behind him that’s covered in various photos, finding one of a landscape to lock my eyes onto. “No. I’m named after my grandfather. His name was Arthur.” The table grows quiet again, so I add, “He didn’t go by Artie.”
Their eyes shift between one another, and I wonder if they’re confused. Why don’t they get it? I’m named after him, so I can’t go by anything else. He didn’t go by Artie, so I can’t.
A sudden noise from across the pub pulls my attention away, and my eyes catch the light reflecting off the glass behind the bar. I watch it as it dances, and let it slowly steal my thoughts away so my mind can shut down and I can retreat to a place where everything blurs. This is all too much to take in, and I can’t keep up. My mind just needs a break… but I also know I’m blowing this. They think I’m weird. I knew they would think I’m weird. Everyone does.
This is why I don’t do this. I want to be here for Trevor, but… I’m just making it worse.
“Did you figure out photo booth props?” Trevor asks Mike, drawing the conversation away from me. I reluctantly shift my gaze back to the table, trying once again to be present and play the part I need to. As I do, Trevor’s hand softly lands on my back.
My gaze snaps back to him, and he gives me a gentle, lopsided smile.
But I flinch away from his touch.
I don’t mean to, and it’s not that I don’t want him touching me… but I can’t handle it right now. There’s too much happening, and even his light touch is too overwhelming as it competes with everything else buzzing around inside me. I can’t do what I need to do to calm down, and I’m barely hanging on. I can’t close my eyes, hum, and rock in my seat here. I can’t shake my hands hard or wrap my arms around myself and give my body the pressure it’s craving. I have to keep my mask on, and hold it all together as best I can. But I’m working too hard to do this, and that small touch pushed everything too far, sending my nerves into overdrive with such an intensity that it hurts.
“Did he ever,” Greg answers, huffing a small laugh.
Trevor eyes me for a moment, and I can see the hurt briefly flash across his face. Then he pulls his hand back, and rests it on the table before him. And intense disappointment washes over me. I want him to be near me, and to touch me. And I don’t want to hurt him.
But I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to do any of this.
“Oh yeah,” Mike says excitedly. “We’re talking funny glasses, feather boas, crowns… You name it, I’m getting it.”
Jason chuckles and shakes his head. “Andrea approve this?”
Mike scoffs and waves him off. “She put me in charge of it.”
They all exchange a look, and I don’t know what that means. Photo booth? Props? Someone put him in charge, and she needs to approve it? But they want him to be in charge…?
Mike seems to notice my confusion and leans forward. “I’m getting married in a couple weeks and my fiancée put me in charge of photo booth props for the wedding,” he explains. “And I did it .” He leans back and points around the table at Greg, Trevor, and Jason, who all either roll their eyes or shake their heads. “These fuckers thought I couldn’t do it. You’ll see.” He raises his glass towards me. “You and Trevor can have your pick of anything you want in the photo booth, it will all be there.”
I look at Trevor as I slowly process what Mike just said. But Trevor just presses his lips together and tightly shakes his head at Mike.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” Mike says with a wince. “I mean… sorry, I… I got a little too excited.”
“What…” I ask, my voice sounding far away as my head whirls and I try to sort through what’s happening.
Trevor turns to me with a tight smile. “Oh, nothing.”
I catch sight of Mike wincing at Greg and Jason, and I squeeze my hands together as I try to piece it all together. Mike is getting married… and he thinks I’ll be there? With Trevor?
…Was Trevor going to invite me?
I look at him as he averts his gaze and takes a drink of his beer, while Jason quickly changes the subject to something about hockey.
And now he doesn’t want to. Because I’m not good at this.
Now, he wants nothing to do with me. Because I don’t fit into his life.
I shouldn’t have come here.
I ruined everything.