Chapter 7
Tallus
Diem had been inside his head all afternoon and evening.
Something was tumbling and bumbling within the thick walls of his cranium, yet I didn’t think it had to do with my mother’s comment anymore.
It seemed… different. More of a quiet introspection.
The aura of anxiety was missing, or perhaps it had dimmed.
Most of the time, I could read Diem like a book. On occasion, he reinforced his steel barriers, and I was hopelessly lost, like now. No matter what I did, I couldn’t see beyond the shield he’d erected to know what knotted his brain and silenced his lips.
“Everything okay?” I asked on our way home.
“Yeah.”
“You’re quiet.”
“Thinking.”
“About?”
He pretended not to hear, and I didn’t ask again.
When I offered to cook dinner, he insisted it was his turn. When I said I would wash up after, he brushed his thumb along my jaw, pecked a kiss on my lips, and mumbled, “It’s fine. I’ve got it. Go watch TV. I’ll be there soon. We can snuggle.”
I suspiciously backed away. Diem rarely suggested cuddling as an activity we should partake in.
He never resisted when I crawled into his arms or burrowed against his chest at night to listen to his heart.
He willingly reciprocated by wrapping me in his arms. I often monkeyed around him when I was having a bad day, and he suffered the invasion, but snuggling of his own volition was… outside the norm.
But tonight, Diem wanted to snuggle. Suggested snuggling. I tried not to think of it as a red flag.
Stretching long on the couch, I encouraged Echo to lie beside me.
I scrolled through our various subscription services, considering what to watch.
Diem didn’t like reality TV, but some programs appealed to him more than others.
He tolerated the cooking and baking contests.
He loathed every singing competition. Fashion shows and anything runway-based made him roll his eyes and openly complain.
Forget the dating ones. Those were trash.
Utter garbage. The building, flipping, renovating, house-hunting type held his attention more than most, but it was the Survivor-esque competitions that he seemed to secretly enjoy.
We had been slowly making our way through all twelve seasons of Alone, a wilderness survival competition. People were dropped in the middle of nowhere with minimal supplies, and the person who lasted the longest won. Memphis and I had never heard of it, and we were reality show gurus.
Diem discovered it one night on the History Channel, and after one episode, he was hooked. Admitting it wasn’t bad, I searched our streaming services and found it right away. We had been binge-watching every season for the past few weeks.
Many aspects of the program gave me the heebie-jeebies, but Diem mumbled repeatedly how pleasant and peaceful the solitude sounded—no people, no traffic, no toxic air—and how he would kick ass if he was a contestant.
Nothing set us apart more than our vastly different ways of defining pleasant and peaceful.
A bubble bath with a glass of wine on a Friday night was pleasant and peaceful. The wilderness with mosquitoes and muck and a lack of flushing toilets… not so much.
Alas, I loved Diem, so we indulged in his show from time to time.
Since he was in a weird thinky headspace, I queued the next episode of Alone and waited for him to finish in the kitchen.
As I waited, I gave Echo ear scratches, and she licked my face in gratitude, wetting my glasses with her slobber and making me laugh.
“You’re disgusting. Do you lick your daddy’s face like that?”
“She does.”
“And you let her?”
He didn’t respond, and I suspected his attention had drifted elsewhere.
He only had one foot in the moment. The other was locked in a different plane of existence with whatever was troubling him.
A few minutes later, he shooed Echo from the couch.
Instead of making me sit up to give him room, he lay beside me, stretching long and filling the space she’d once been.
Diem was not little spoon material.
“Um. You’re much bigger than a dog, and I can’t see over you. Plus, I’m squashed against the back of the couch.”
He rolled to face me.
“Not complaining,” I said, “but the TV is the other way.”
“Better view this way.” Diem wrapped his arms around me, drawing me against his brick wall body and burying his face in my hair.
Crushed against his chest, I squeaked, “Glasses. God help me if I break them, D. We can’t afford to buy new ones. Again.”
With a soft chuckle, he loosened his hold.
I removed the frames—they were only six months old—before they ended up crushed.
Diem placed them on the table beside the couch.
“Resume bear hugging,” I said.
Diem obliged. The muscles beneath his skin jittered and jumped. His heart raced under my ear. His grip was tighter than was comfortable, but I didn’t dare say anything, or Diem would retreat, swamped with shame and regret for having accidentally caused harm.
I squirmed, and it was enough of a cue for him to relax his hold. I could breathe again and tipped my head, kissing the underside of his scruffy chin. The faded scent of soap mixed with Diem’s natural scent was a balm on my soul.
I kissed the racing pulse under his jaw. “You okay, D? You seem jittery, and as much as I pretend to be a mind reader like Kitty, I’m having trouble with this one.”
“I haven’t had a drink since we visited your parents Sunday night.”
I processed that, unsure what to say. Was he experiencing withdrawal? Was his drinking so bad that he exhibited those symptoms after only a couple of days without alcohol? Diem never talked about his addiction, and I refused to bring it up, even though it concerned me.
He was aware, and to me, that was enough.
“That’s good… right?”
“Yeah. I’m…” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m getting help.”
“Oh?” I tried to break free from the stranglehold of his arms, but he wouldn’t loosen his grip. I suspected he didn’t want to look me in the eye for this conversation, so I nestled back into his arms and listened to the way his words vibrated and resonated inside his chest.
“Costa hooked me up with… Aslan Doyle. We’re meeting for lunch tomorrow, and I’m going with him to an AA meeting.”
“That’s good, D.”
“I didn’t know he was an addict.”
I stayed quiet.
Diem’s next breath shuddered through him, broken and jagged. It sounded like relief. Like he’d been holding in the confession all day, and his body could finally relax now that it was in the open. I considered the weight of such an admission and understood Diem’s introspection all afternoon.
“You deserve me at my best.” His voice barely carried to my ears.
“No one can be at their best all the time, D.”
“You are.”
I laughed and forcibly pushed from his arms so I could look at him. “I spent years finding my feet after Mom and I left that sperm donor asshole who called himself my father. Trust me, I’ve experienced my fair share of lows.”
I smoothed the tight skin beside Diem’s storm-cloud eyes, urging him to relax.
“Dinner at your parents’ was good. I don’t think I mentioned that.”
“You mean the food, not the company.”
He winced.
“Mom tries too hard. She wants you to feel like part of the family.”
Diem cut his gaze to a spot over my shoulder. Family was a tough concept for Diem. I imagined he couldn’t see a day when he would ever fit into mine.
“Heath was nice,” he said.
“Heath’s amazing.”
“He wants to teach me to fish.”
“Eww. Don’t do it. It’s disgusting.”
The first smile I’d seen all afternoon crawled across Diem’s face. He met my eyes with more confidence. “He mentioned you didn’t enjoy it.”
“Understatement of the century. Do you know what fishing entails?
Let me fill you in. It involves hooking worms and minnows.
Impaling them. Stabbing their wiggling bodies with a sharp object.
And no, according to Heath, hot dogs are not a suitable substitution, no matter what the Boy Scouts taught me.
“You have to suffer long, long, looooong periods of time at a boring lake, waiting for your bobber to bob or a nibbling tug on the line that will never come. Watching paint dry would be more exciting. No music. No TV. No flushing toilets for miles. You want hot water? Forget it. The coffee is shit, and the bugs… My god, the bugs. Heath likes to fish with his thoughts and won’t engage in extensive conversation.
“Then, if you’re lucky enough to catch something, which I generally was because god hates me, you have to touch it.
With your bare hands, Diem. And carve its guts out.
You thought stabbing a worm was bad? No.
This is way, way worse. You get to use a knife, and you aren’t allowed to chicken out.
Then, you have to pretend you’re excited to eat it even though you feel nauseous.
So yeah, fishing is not my thing. No thank you.
I’d rather get my fish already dead, gutted, and beheaded from the grocery store in cellophane like a normal human being.
Or, if I’m feeling especially frivolous, I’ll order it battered and deep-fried from a restaurant.
God, I’m hungry again. Can we order fish and chips? ”
The contemplative look returned to my boyfriend’s face, but it came with a side of humor this time. His lips curled at the edges, and he kissed my nose. “You ate two plates of dinner and a peanut butter sandwich beforehand because you couldn’t wait for the pasta to cook.”
“I burn a lot of calories in a day.”
“Sitting behind your desk and browsing your socials?”
“Shut up. It’s exhausting. Are you going to take Heath up on the offer?”
Diem’s smile faded.
“You know, if you want to be a contestant on Alone, you should probably learn to fish.”
“I… No. He wasn’t serious. He was making conversation. He doesn’t even know me.”
“That’s the point. He wants to know you.”
Diem stuck to his guns, certain the offer was made to be polite.
I didn’t argue or tell him he was wrong.
Heath wouldn’t have mentioned it if he wasn’t serious, but since the thought of joining my stepfather on the lake seemed to make Diem uncomfortable, I let it go.
Heath would reach out again in time, and those were Diem’s hurdles.
My stepfather was a good man with a huge heart, and I had no doubt he would take Diem under his wing like he had me.
Before Heath came into my life, the only father figure I had known was the one who rejected his gay son. The one who ridiculed and teased me. The one whose verbal abuse was so subtle yet so vile, it took breaking free to see it for what it truly was.
Diem’s dad was worse, and unlike my mother, Marlow Krause had never advocated for her son.
She’d let the abuse happen. She’d turned the other cheek and left Diem to drown.
His escape had involved years of therapy and destructive habits that he was still dealing with on a daily basis.
His scars ran deep. His trust in humanity was frail on a good day.
On evenings when we ended up naked in bed, I silently traced the history of Diem’s life as it was mapped on his skin.
He’d endured so much, but he’d survived. Diem thrived, although he didn’t see it that way. Not yet.
My one goal in life was to help him feel worthy. Show him that he was enough.
“I queued Alone. Want to watch an episode?”
“Sure.” I imagined he was happy to change the subject.
We adjusted our bodies, so Diem lay against the back of the couch with me spooned in his arms. Although I sometimes took the role of big spoon after painful therapy sessions or intensely emotional sex, it didn’t work when watching TV.
Diem passed me my glasses, and I hit Play.
Emotions were high. His confession about AA might have gotten buried, but it still coursed through his veins.
Diem touched me subtly throughout the entire episode.
For a man who had once been uncertain about showing affection—who didn’t know how to show affection—tonight, he seemed unable to stop, like he couldn’t get enough, like he was making up for lost time.
He ran his fingers through my hair and buried his nose in my neck, inhaling.
He brushed his lips along my nape and across the shell of my ear, sighing and kissing.
Untucking my shirt, he fanned his blunt fingers against my abdomen, tracing my navel, my ribs, and the curve of my hip.
He moved his bare foot against mine, exploring under the cuff of my trousers with his toes.
He weaved our legs together, hooked his ankle around my calf, and urged me closer still.
When he located the ring I wore on a chain around my neck, he threaded a finger through the loop and flattened his palm over my heart.
Every silent action was a declaration of love.
I wanted to shout, I hear you, Diem. I know.