Chapter twenty
"Okay, Mom. Talk to you later. Love you." I hung up and massaged my temples. Still. Still, I wasn't brave enough.
Arlie, who'd been sitting at our tiny kitchen table, working on trying to repair a toaster that had gone kaput—I was pretty sure we were going to have to throw it out—looked up sharply. He could always tell when I was upset.
"What is it?"
"I still didn't tell her," I admitted.
Instead of saying "no shit," which would be fair, since obviously he'd heard my side of the conversation—and possibly hers, with his amazing wolf shifter hearing—he looked alarmed.
"Were you planning to? I thought that could wait till we can do it in person.
Eventually." He looked at me quizzically.
"I should be able to tell her," I said. My mother was a nice person.
I doubted she'd suddenly start spouting homophobic nonsense.
But she might have some questions about me being bi, and it might be awkward.
Even if it wasn't, I was awkward. That was the truth: I was still awkward about this.
"I hate being scared," I admitted. "I should be able to be proud and open and just.. .talk about it."
If I couldn't even tell my own mother, what kind of progress was I actually making with all my therapy and such?
He got up and moved to my side, gingerly putting an arm around me, like he had to be extra careful not to break me by accident.
As if I was that fragile. "Well, maybe someday, but.
..I'd really rather you do it in person, and when I'm there, you know?
I don't want them making you feel like shit and you having to deal with it alone.
I'm part of this, right? You were there when I told the pack.
You'd have been there with me when I told my parents, if they were still alive, right? "
"Sure," I said vaguely, letting myself be drawn to lean against him, and into a hug.
It was no good complaining more about how weak and foolish I felt.
The truth was, I just wasn't there yet—and maybe that was okay.
My parents might take it well and they might not, but either way, I was spiraling about it before that even happened.
I needed to have a plan in place if it went poorly, and not just push through.
"We'll see them near Christmas. If you feel good about it by then, we can talk to them. If not, it can wait a little longer, right? I mean, there's not really any hurry. Not on my end."
He threaded his fingers through my hair, holding onto me loosely. Leaning against him, relaxed like this, I was well aware of the solid strength of him. Someone I could lean on in so many ways. I wanted to be that for him, too. "Okay. I guess you're right."
"There's nothing to prove here. We're just figuring out how to live and be happy, okay?"
I nodded against him, wishing my eyes weren't so damn wet.
There had always been something to prove. Some destination, some benchmark to hit, something to cross off the list. The need to prove my love, myself, my commitment, my worthiness as a partner. But not with Arlie. He accepted the weak side of me, the insecurities, the fragile parts of my brain.
"We'll get there," he said. "If you want to. But no hurry. It takes the time it takes."
I thought about the ways that was true. Finally, I smiled up at him. "Thanks. You're so good to me."
"You have a really low bar," he informed me, but he kissed me all the same.
#
The antique mall wasn't our usual thing, but Arlie had wanted to go and check out the furniture. He said sometimes they had weird little end tables, and we needed something to go beside our bed. Something sturdier and less ugly than the one we'd had, which was about as strong as cardboard.
It hadn't occurred to me how much Arlie needed to take the strength of furniture into consideration.
He always had to think about his size, his strength.
He moved gingerly when he didn't know how fragile things were.
Even here, in widely-spaced aisles, he was walking gingerly, staying close to me, avoiding brushing against anything in the booths.
Then again, maybe he just wanted to be close to me. He let his shoulder brush against mine. I glanced at him, and then smiled. I let my arm press against his briefly, our hands brush lightly. Maybe I wasn't brave enough to hold his hand in public yet. But it was a 'yet.' I would be, someday.
Sure enough, he found something he liked—something sturdy and squat, made of heavy ornate wood, with a drawer in it—and it didn't cost any more than a new bedside table would have.
Probably less. He carried it and we made our way to the checkout.
There was a bit of a tangle there, as it was too big for the countertop, and the people at the checkout needed to see the little tag before they could ring us up.
"Could you grab it?" he asked me, and I moved closer, trying to get my arm between his and table and get the little tag free before we inconvenienced the other people in line even more.
We were like that, sort of tangled up, as I held onto him and finally got it loose, handed it over, and was trying to work my way free of the situation, when I heard a familiar (and dreaded) voice.
"Well well, if it isn't my old boyfriend." Darby's voice could cut glass, and she sounded pissed—but in the fake-nice way that said she was probably going to be able to fool everyone else about whether she was digging the knife in or just making an innocent remark.
I think I flinched. Arlie's whole body tightened up, and leaning against him felt a bit like snuggling up to a brick wall.
I finally got free of him—and pulled out my wallet so we could pay fast and get out of there.
I don't think my fingers were shaking, but maybe they were.
I couldn't seem to get my credit card out.
I hadn't looked up at her, but that didn't stop her.
She approached with a brittle smile in place.
Her teeth had always been perfect, and her hair.
She wasn't seen in public without looking just as she wanted to look.
Today she looked dangerously fashionable, but much thinner.
She'd always been slim, but now she had that high-fashion gauntness that was coming back into style.
Was it from drugs, diet, or a health issue?
I'd probably never know. It made her look older and worse, to me.
She smelled like the same perfume, though.
"If it isn't my old flame." She squeezed my upper arm, hard. Her fingernails were just as sharp as ever. "And if it isn't your old 'friend.'" She gave Arlie a look that nobody would be able to construe as friendly.
I didn't want to do this at the checkout. I didn't want to do this at all.
"Darby," said Arlie, clearing his throat. "What are you up to these days?"
"Redecorating," she said breezily. "My boyfriend Mark and I bought a cozy little three story Victorian fixer-upper farmhouse."
Huh? I dared to glance around for this guy, but if he was here, he didn't make his presence felt. I finally made myself meet her eyes. There was judgment there, sure, but also a kind of knowing look.
My credit card went through. I signed something that I hoped was my signature and accepted the slip they gave me. It seemed to take forever. Arlie shuffled past, still awkwardly carrying the table, looking like he didn't know what to do.
Darby was looking at me, triumphant, waiting.
I cleared my throat. "That's what we're doing, too. Redecorating, I mean. Our place."
"Of course you are," she said in a condescending, almost pitying tone. "I'm glad you finally have the courage to be honest about who you are."
Words like that could mean a lot, if they were from the heart and not filled with spite. I'd almost have preferred her to call me a slur. It might have hurt less.
I shoved the receipt in my pocket and followed Arlie, fast.
"Are you okay?" asked Arlie, as soon as we were moving. He kept his eyes on the road. His voice was low and tense.
"No," I told him, my voice cracking a little. "But at least I don't have to go home with her. I get to go home with you."
He reached across and fumbled, till he found my hand, and held on, driving one-handed. I gave his hand a squeeze and looked out the window, trying to compose myself, trying to stop feeling like a piece of shit she'd needed to wipe off her shoe.
#
At home, we didn't talk about it right away. We got the table where it belonged. I started making supper, moving around the kitchen in a careful daze. I didn't like that she could still affect me like this.
I'd probably need to talk about it in therapy, which didn't exactly thrill me. I was so tired of talking about Darby. But she clearly wasn't completely out of my head yet. It had been an unlucky chance meeting, but it could happen again, and I needed to be prepared.
"That was brave of you, today," said Arlie, joining me cautiously in the kitchen. I noted—and then tried not to think about—how carefully he moved. Like he needed to avoid approaching me too quietly, too quickly. Like maybe I was breakable.
"What, admitting we live together?" I snorted. It didn't feel like it had meant much, that tiny admission, and it had certainly earned me her mean-spirited disdain.
He moved slightly to lean against the doorway, so he could stand near the stove but still see my face. "I didn't expect you to do that. It was a big deal."
I didn't look at him, and kept my focus on the stove, on the cooking. "She had a lot to say about me when we broke up, you know. A lot of shit to tell me about myself. This—today—was the nice version, the public face."
He took a careful breath. "She'd be the asshole, you know that, right?"
"What?"
"On the forums. Even strangers would agree. She was the asshole, not you. You know that, right?"