Chapter Thirty-Five #3
He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t want to tell you because I was embarrassed.”
It could be a realistic answer. And I’m desperate to accept it, unsure what else it might be. However, I can’t shake the ill-at-ease feeling in my gut that tells me I’m missing something big. For now, I accept the apology and have no choice but to drop it.
A new behavioral pattern emerges soon after this, and arguments become all too common between us.
They’re primarily insubstantial, over little things that I wouldn’t usually argue about with anyone else.
Still, as Luke’s temper unexpectedly flares, mine always rises to match it like a twin flame—almost against my will.
I’m not naturally argumentative, so it throws me off to find us in this new space.
But after our disagreements erupt into full-blown fights, it usually ends with stellar make-up sex that has me wondering if it was all a part of Luke’s plan from the beginning, like he craves the drama to find some heightened release.
The problem with all of the fighting is that I know he’s not angry with me.
Not really. The arguments never seem to have anything to do with the petty things we fight about on the surface, but I’m the only one he can release all of his pent-up energy on.
I can see the war within himself, the guilty anguish in his eyes as he gets stuck in these moods, and how he hates falling prey to the caprice.
He doesn’t want to fight, but not fighting seems like it would be worse because it means keeping all of his stress and angst bottled in.
My only fault in all this is getting stuck in the crosshairs.
Knowing his past struggles with anger, my heart breaks to see such a resurgence of it.
Yet, whenever I try to dig deeper into what’s really upsetting him, Luke always shuts down, firmly keeping me out of the inner workings of his mind.
Either he doesn’t understand the source but is a slave to its whims, or he knows exactly what it is and refuses to tell me.
Seeing this only adds to my frustration.
I could help him, but only if he lets me know how.
The fact that he’s still refusing to tell me what’s really going on adds to my temper whenever I react in kind.
I don’t like what it does to me—the anxiousness that wants so badly to shake him by the shoulders until he opens up, hating how helpless I feel watching him struggle.
For now, I tell myself I can handle the fighting if it eases a bit of the pressure in his mind. Lord knows he always has a way of making up for it that has me wishing for the next fight like a Pavlovian response. But I know this isn’t tenable long-term—for him or me.
Heading into Saturday’s rival game, I put our tensions and angst away as best I can and focus on getting ready for the big watch party. This year, it’s my turn to host, and I have a lot to prepare before everyone arrives.
I spend the entire morning making more food than is likely necessary for eight adults and nine children—ten if you include Ryder’s boyfriend—but what can I say?
Cooking is one of the things I’m reasonably good at, and I enjoy it.
So why wouldn’t I splurge? There are three different kinds of chips and homemade dips, a nacho bar with salsa and guacamole, potato salad and coleslaw, deviled eggs, and a charcuterie board of various meats and cheeses for appetizers.
I’ve gone all out, making BBQ pulled pork for sandwiches, beans, chicken wings, and a vegetarian chili for dinner, so there are enough options for everyone.
There’s a cocktail bar for the adults and a mocktail bar for the kiddos—along with a pregnant Liz—and by the time kickoff starts, everyone’s got drinks and plates of food in their hands, and I’m satisfied by their hums of approval that I’ve done a good job.
Our group is equally divided as far as which team we’re rooting for—half of us die-hard Michigan fans, the other half weirdly devoted to State.
Those on the right side of the issue (go blue!) include Marcus, Tiff, Laura, and me.
Ben, Eric, and Liz are on the regrettable side.
For Ben and Laura, being in a rival household makes things interesting every year as the two schools play against each other.
Watching the two of them tear each other apart with their taunting is more entertaining than the game at times, but it’s all in good fun.
Luke, for his part, doesn’t care one iota about football, but he shows up to the party anyway, supporting my team in an act of solidarity, wearing one of my oversized U of M hoodies in a fucking tantalizing display of cozy attractiveness.
But I can tell almost immediately that today isn’t a good day the moment he walks in the door.
It’s evident in the way he holds himself.
Even though he’s smiling, that undercurrent of angst is right near the surface, and he’s unusually quiet as the night goes on.
It winds up becoming the only thing I can focus on.
He doesn’t pay attention to the game the entire time he’s here, but I notice him wincing and flinching with the noisy outbursts from the others as they either boo or cheer for their respective teams. He doesn’t complain, though.
He seems wholly disinterested in being here, his nose buried in his phone instead.
Normally, that doesn’t bother me. It’s not like I need him to love everything I love.
I just wish he’d let me know what’s bothering him.
At one point during a commercial break, Luke subtly taps me on the knee, and for a moment, I’m hopeful that he might want to talk.
But as I turn to him, he wordlessly nods toward the back deck with a small smile, and I follow his line of sight to see Ryder sitting curled up on Justin’s lap in one of the chairs outside.
His head is on the other’s shoulder, and they have a blanket to keep them warm in the crisp October night air, a picture of pure coziness.
It’s just the two of them out there, having slipped away at some point in the evening when no one noticed.
They’re within full view of the rest of the party, and yet, watching them, you’d think they were the only two people in the entire universe.
The way Justin is rubbing his hand along Ryder’s legs so delicately almost feels too intimate to watch.
It’s such a simple thing, but it’s honestly fucking adorable.
As Luke watches the kids with a rueful smile, I study his face closely, trying to imagine what he’s thinking.
I have to believe it means something special to him to see young queer kids able to just be with each other like that out in the open without worrying about what the rest of the world sees.
I definitely find it hopeful for the future.
I wonder if he wishes we were there, too…
If he’s at all remorseful that I’m not at the point where I’d be comfy having him sit in my lap in a place like this.
Still, as covertly as possible, I brush my hand between our legs on the couch, tracing my palm over his upper thigh. Without turning back to me, I can see the outline of Luke’s smile as he accepts the quiet comfort in the only way I know how to give it.
Then he takes up his phone again, and every time I glance at the screen, I see that he’s scrolling through Instagram, hovering over photos and studying them so closely that I’m curious what he sees in them.
From what I can see without blatantly staring, it looks bright and colorful, with people laughing and smiling in cool costumes.
But he seems to grow more pensive, if that were even possible, his foul mood wafting off him in a near-tangible wave of energy.
When Michigan scores its third touchdown in the second half of the game, the group goes wild.
Laura is especially vicious and loud as she taunts Ben for his losing team, having scored zero points the entire game so far, which is objectively very funny.
But I notice Luke groan and rub his forehead irritably at the uptick in noise.
He frowns and sighs, putting his phone face down in his lap with a heavy swallow.
“Are you all right?” I ask softly.
“I’m not feeling very well,” he replies, giving me an apologetic look. “I might go home, actually. I think I’ve got a migraine coming on.”
“Do you want to go lie down upstairs instead?” I ask carefully, giving a look that I hope conveys my desire for him to stay.
Luke briefly glances around the room before turning back to me with a weary look in his eyes.
Eventually, he nods, and we stand up from the couch together.
With a brief statement about Luke’s unfortunate state of pain and a flimsy lie about him wanting to go lie down in a guest room, I follow him upstairs and toward my bedroom, giving us a moment to speak privately once we’re away from any prying eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I ask gently, putting my hands to Luke’s face as he stands in the doorway.
With the physical contact, he loses the strength that was holding his composure together and immediately starts crying, his lower lip trembling.
Shaking his head, he puts his hands on my chest, simultaneously pushing me away while clinging to my shirt like he doesn’t want me to go.
“It’s nothing,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.
I’m fine. I’m okay. I don’t know why I’m crying right now. ”
“Did something happen?”
Luke shakes his head. “No. It just came over me suddenly.”
“Let’s talk about it. Please? Can we go lie down?” I suggest, but Luke shakes his head more vigorously and pulls away, putting space between us.
“Don’t. Please don’t leave your friends down there for me. I’m okay. I’ll be okay. I think I want to be alone for a bit. You should go have fun. Okay?”
“They won’t care if I don’t go back down there. They’re too invested in the game to notice what I’m doing.”