Chapter 15 #2
He grins at me when he says this, trying to turn it into a joke. I frown. Exhausted by him? That’s like getting sick of happiness and light and wishing for depression. Oliver, seeing the expression, swallows and nestles a little further into the blankets.
“I just think dating was really hard for me in New York. It was almost like being spoiled for choice, and everyone is out there looking for something I didn’t have.
It was tiring. Being ghosted by someone who’s seen you naked isn’t so much fun once it happens a dozen times.
And my parents are obsessed with getting married.
The first thing they ask me when I talk to them is if I’ve met anyone.
They don’t even care if it’s a man or a woman, they just want me to ‘settle down.’ Literally, because apparently, if I could settle my personality down a little bit, people would like me better. ”
“Oli,” I say when he shows every sign of laughing again.
That sounds a little too familiar to me, having spent my entire life knowing that if I could just get rid of my stutter, people would find it easier to be around me.
Funny, how I’ve always tried to make my presence more bearable for others by being quiet, but my first instinct hearing that from Oliver is anger that he feels the need to be smaller in order to be loved.
“Sorry,” he replies immediately, and I wonder if he’s apologizing for the negative comment about himself or apologizing for what he perceives as him talking too much. After a moment, he adds, as though unable to help himself from finishing the thought, “I probably have too high of standards.”
I raise my eyebrows at that. I hate to say it, but his standards are in the gutter, as evidenced by the fact that he’s currently in bed with me.
I shake my head no, trying to convey that high standards aren’t something he should be apologizing for.
It does make me wonder, though, what sort of person Oliver might seek out.
It’s incredibly difficult for me to reconcile the fact of him wanting me in any capacity.
There is nothing I have that he couldn’t find elsewhere.
“Standards?” I ask, never more grateful for his ability to pluck full sentences from my single words as I am right now. I don’t want to lie in this bed with him, warm and sated and happy, and ruin it by stammering.
He thinks about it for a second, bottom lip rolled inward as he chews on it. After a second, he shrugs the shoulder not pressed into the mattress.
“I think what I really want is just someone who listens to me and remembers what I said.”
I close my eyes for a moment, oddly overwhelmed.
Before I went to work on the Drifter, I’d never met a person I would classify as a good listener.
Most people try, though, and the majority won’t outright interrupt or try to hurry you along.
But struggling with speech has also made me hyperaware of how many people struggle to listen.
Their eyes move away. They fidget—rocking back on their heels or scuffing their toes.
They breathe heavier, sucking great lungfuls of air through their nose and letting it out through their mouth like they’re practicing yoga breathing.
They roll their lips or click their tongue, eager for their chance to speak and wishing they didn’t have to wait their turn.
In my case, noticing these tells only makes it harder to talk.
Anxiety isn’t a friend to stuttering. Being met with obvious frustration makes speaking feel impossible, which only makes the other person more frustrated.
It’s the kind of endless cycle that fills me with dread and did most of the work in convincing me the best way to handle it was by not talking at all.
Growing up, kids could be ruthless in their bullying, but somehow, that bothered me less than seeing the same discomfort from adults.
Children and teenagers can be forgiven for bad choices or making fun of something they don’t understand.
An adult should know better, should be better.
I know I’m not the only person with a speech impediment, and certainly not the only person who’s ever felt misunderstood.
But it’s a lot easier to feel alone and let things like that isolate you than it is to find someone to help shoulder the burden.
Hearing Oliver say something I’ve thought myself, a hundred times over, gives me a sudden feeling of falling—the bed gone beneath me, body weightless as I plummet.
What I really want is someone who listens to me.
Oliver is that person. Oliver listens to me, ocean eyes unwavering, hands still at his sides.
He doesn’t interrupt. He lets me talk in words and silence and has no trouble understanding either.
He doesn’t laugh when I turn single-letter words into multi-syllable monstrosities.
He asks me questions and brings me into conversations when most people who know me don’t.
People rarely stop me when I’m in Siren’s Point proper.
I never get pulled aside for a chat in the grocery store or asked personal questions at the post office.
People here know I can’t hold a normal conversation, and so they don’t even try.
Oliver does. And there is no lie in his face when he listens, no frustration or regret from having started a conversation in the first place.
Making sure he’s watching me, I free an arm from the blankets and point at myself.
He flushes, immediately understanding exactly what I’m saying.
I’m the person who will listen to him. I’m the person who will join him down the winding paths he takes when he’s telling a story.
I’m the person who will remember everything he feels is important enough to share with me.
“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “You are my person.”
I park in front of Oliver’s house just as he’s walking out of the front door, hands clenched around a colorful bundle of fabric.
He smiles, breath fogging in front of his face and beanie pulled low over his ears, as he shifts to try and free up his right hand.
Climbing from my truck, I go to help him.
“Nils,” he greets me cheerfully, swaying toward me for a kiss. “Cold,” he adds about my lips, still grinning happily at me. I nod. It’s freezing today.
Gently, I take what I can now see are reusable shopping totes from his hands, freeing them up so he can lock his front door. I get another kiss for my trouble, and once the door is taken care of, he moves close enough to rest his forearms on my shoulders, fingers teasing the back of my neck.
“To what do I owe the pleasure? Come for another day of fun in the haunted house?”
All morning, I’d practiced the words. There had been an itch under my skin from the moment I woke up in an empty bed—a need to see Oliver and hear his voice.
I’d missed him like it hadn’t been less than twenty-four hours since I’d last been with him.
So, I made the decision to stop by and see him.
I practiced what I wanted to say. I wish you had stayed over last night.
I missed you this morning. I always miss you when you’re not around.
I swallow, thinking through the words once more and reminding myself to go slow.
Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how much I practice or prepare. Sometimes, it’s hard no matter what.
Oliver waits, humming so softly I can barely hear it, even though he’s close enough for me to count a handful of freckles on his nose. He’s always so patient, so attuned to every signal I unknowingly put out. If people were half as kind as Oliver, world peace might actually be an attainable goal.
“I wish you-you-you had stayed over last night.” Slower, I remind myself, ignoring the way my body immediately feels floaty with nerves after I stumble. “I missed you this morning. I always miss you-you.”
I cut off before I finish everything I’d planned to say, feeling like I adequately made the point I was trying to make.
And indeed, Oliver’s expression shows he heard me loud and clear, stutter or no, and that smile alone makes it worth the effort to try for me.
I shift the shopping totes so they’re not between us as Oliver uses the position of his arms to pull me in for another kiss.
“I can’t think of a single thing to say.
What a time for words to fail me,” he murmurs.
I smile, exhaling out of my nose in a soft huff of laughter, the cold winter air fogged between us.
“Stay over tonight? And today? I was going to go grocery shopping and grab a coffee in town, but I don’t have to.
I have plenty of groceries. I actually am only going because I have a couple specific recipes in mind that, naturally, require none of the ingredients I already have in the house. ”
I chuckle again, finding it hard to form my mouth into anything but a smile.
I don’t enjoy grocery shopping. In fact, it’s one of my least favorite activities.
I usually buy the exact same thing every time I go, so there is no need to linger and fewer chances for people to try and talk to me.
Mara, a young teenager who works the registers on the weekends, has a father and two brothers who are lobstermen.
Every time I go in, she tries her best to engage in a lively conversation with me, happily scanning my groceries while telling me about the price of lobster.
It’s silly to be stressed by the thought of talking to a teenager, let alone one who is sweet and trying to be polite.
But even the thought of having a long conversation with my own mother stresses me out.
Add in the public setting of the Salty Grocer, and Mara at her cash register with a line forming behind me, everyone eavesdropping, and there is very little chance of me being able to say a damn thing at all.