Chapter 17
I slowly blink open my eyes. Same routine—different day.
We’ve fallen asleep to yet another movie, Miles wrapped in my arms, another crick in my neck.
This routine that we’ve fallen into has yet to become monotonous.
Miles sleeps quietly in my arms, and I allow myself the luxury of just watching him sleep.
My heart beats gently against my ribs, and warmth spreads through my veins.
I feel almost happy—happy to be alive, to be here, to be with him.
I kiss his temple and squeeze him a little tighter.
He’s such a heavy sleeper that car alarms could howl from the street, I could toss him onto the sofa, and break a vase all without him budging.
He breathes deeply, heavily, in a slow, rhythmic cadence.
I slide out from beneath him, laying him softly on the sofa and draping a fleece throw blanket over his shoulders.
I plant another tender kiss on his temple, and he doesn’t move.
I tiptoe down the hallway to my room and slip into some sleepwear.
As an insomniac, I tend to wander around in the middle of the night—nothing new.
I tried to get help once, and when I did, I became an addict, so instead, I suffer.
Though, lately, when I sleep next to Miles, I find myself sleeping through the night—or almost. I’ve never felt so rested.
The view from my study stretches out over the horizon and deep into the city.
I watch the cars pass on the streets in the distance and read the same four ads on the same digital billboard.
I’m content with my life for the first time, and I’ve finally found someone to share it with.
But I can’t help but think about my past—the one I’ve hidden from the public.
I don’t like the idea of hiding parts of myself from him.
It’s terrifying to think about what he’d do with that information, and all of this suffering has all been just an elaborate rouse.
I hear shuffling from the hallway and smile in my palm. Miles woke up, and he’s looking for me. I meet his eyes when he steps into the room, and I smile even wider, elated to have someone to share this moment with. I pull him into my lap and take in his scent.
“What were you thinking about?” Miles leans into me, resting his body against mine.
“Can we talk?” I ask the question no one wants to hear.
He looks nervous to hear what I have to say, but I do my best to reassure him that this isn’t “that” kind of talk.
I tell him about my past, where I was born, when, and my childhood.
I can feel myself fight against the tears as I tell him about the accident, the sadness, my depression—my addiction.
And he just listens. Not trying to relate.
Not trying to undermine my feelings. He just listens.
And when I finally meet his gaze again, there’s something dark behind his eyes.
He chokes up, apologizing. For what? I’m not sure.
It’s his turn to confess. He cups my face and slips from my embrace.
He’s guilty of something. I can see it in his face.
And it’s easier for him to tell me while not wrapped in my arms. I’m terrified of what he’s about to say.
Just from what I can read on his body, it’s about to be devastating—and just after I’ve finally opened my heart to someone.
His confession is brutal, shattering me from the inside.
And I want to run away, to pretend this time with him never happened.
But when I look into his eyes, the honesty, the anguish, the desperation, I can’t leave him—not again, not after everything we’ve been through together.
I pull him into me and take in his scent as he wails.
This has been eating away at him; it's so obvious.
“Someone’s been following you—I know about it. And I can find out who.” He says as he pulls away, the tears soaking his face. I reach for his cheek and wipe them dry.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel knowing that he knows about that, and isn’t it kind of to be expected? Do these things ever really turn into anything? I’m not worried. But Miles sure looks that way, so I agree to let him help me, just to get it off his own chest. “Alright.”
We both go quiet and look out over the horizon as the sun begins to rise.
More time had passed than I realized, and I’m grateful for an empty schedule today.
I lift Miles in my arms and bring him to the bedroom.
I undress him, kiss his temple, and tuck us both under the covers.
I wrap him in my arms and listen to the sound of his breath.
“Malcolm Green,” he whispers into the dark.
“What?”
“My name. I was born ‘Malcolm Green.’ You’re the only other person aside from my uncle who knows that,” he buries his face into my chest.
I don’t ask any questions. I just squeeze him tighter, nod my head, and tell him, “thank you for telling me.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Of course.” I chuckle.
“I hate that name.”