Chapter 61
Tristan
By the time we get Dad home, figure out what happened (he got confused and thought he’d go for a walk), have a stern talking-to with him about keeping his phone on him always, have a gentle talking-to with Bobbie and Yuritza (who both blame themselves for not noticing that Dad got out in the first place), and finally leave, making sure all doors are fully locked, I am both exhausted and absolutely wired on nervous energy.
It’s almost midnight.
Captain Hyun excused us from the rest of our shift—two of the off-duty firefighter paramedics who were at the holiday fundraiser agreed to fill in for us.
“My place or yours?” Nick asks. “Abbie is with my parents, so we’d have my place to ourselves.”
“Your place, please. Can I stay over? I don’t want to be alone.”
“Of course. You can always stay with me. Always.”
I don’t miss the deeper implications of what he’s saying. He’s hinted at it many times recently that he has real, true feelings for me that go deeper than our sexual relationship and our close friendship. He hasn’t said them because he knows I’m not ready to say them.
Or maybe I am ready to hear them?
I don’t know.
Will hearing someone say he loves me actually do anything to fix what I’m convinced is the root problem: that I no longer love myself?
It almost made me sick, the first time that realization hit me, just a few days ago.
I don’t love myself.
I thought I did. I’ve fought hard to build myself into the man I am today, and I thought that I loved myself. But I didn’t. Not really.
I now realize that so much of the identity building I’d done wasn’t inspired by who I wanted to be, but rather by who Warren wanted me to be.
That was the version I’d learned to love, while simultaneously learning to view my true self as something unlovable, that ought to be hidden away.
I had worked so hard never to be ashamed of my queerness that, somehow, I fell into being ashamed about other parts of my identity. Even without the shame being a conscious decision, it has weighed on me for much of my adult life.
I cannot honestly say that I love who I am, because I barely know who I am.
I don’t blame Warren entirely for this.
I don’t believe that he wanted to make me feel unlovable or to make me doubt my worth. But he still did.
“You look like you have a lot on your mind,” Nick says.
He drives easily, calmly, sparing glances in my direction when he’s at a stop sign or a light.
“I’m thinking about love,” I say. The words slip out before I can stop them.
“Love?”
A light turns green. Nick glides the car forward.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “Love.”
I clear my throat. “I know… or, at least, I suspect, that there’s something you are ready to say. Maybe I’m just imagining that, or guessing, and I’m wrong. Or maybe I’m not.”
I barrel on, not giving him a chance to interject. “And, Nick, I think that I want to be ready to say it, or at least ready to hear it, but I’m not. And it’s not you—it really is me, as cliché as it is for me to say that.”
“Why is it you?” he asks, his voice hovering above a whisper.
I appreciate that he doesn’t argue, that he doesn’t push back against what I’ve said. He respects what I’ve said, and his question is kind and thoughtful.
“I don’t think I love myself,” I say, my voice cracking. “And don’t they say that you can’t love someone else, or let someone else really love you, until you’re able to love yourself?”
We arrive at Nick’s building. He puts the car in park and doesn’t look at me.
“We’re going inside,” he says, instead, in a firm voice.
His commanding tone makes me sit up straight in my seat. I’ve learned to obey that voice, to enjoy obeying that voice.
“Get out of the car,” he directs.
I unbuckle my seat belt, open my door, and get out of the car. I am beyond thankful for the commands. Each of Nick’s simple directions clears my head a little bit.
“Shut the door.”
I shut my door.
When I’m following his instructions, there’s no room for my anxiety to spiral. I wonder if he knows this. If he knows how natural it is for me to find comfort in his voice.
“Follow me.”
I follow him into the building, to the elevator, to his unit. He unlocks the door, and I follow him inside.
The door has barely shut when he takes me firmly, roughly, and pushes me up against it.
My breath catches, my heart races, as he presses his warm, hard body against mine. He leans close, his face a breath away from my own, his eyes sharp and narrow, looking into mine.
“Tristan Cavanagh,” he whispers, his breath brushing my lips. “I don’t like it when you say things like that about yourself. You are very worthy of love. Do you understand me?”
Tears spring into my eyes. Not out of fear, or hurt, or anything that Nick has done.
No, I want this. I need this.
I need his firmness, his direction.
If anything, that’s what scares me. I’m scared of myself. Of how much I need him.
He tilts my head up, stretching my muscles oh so perfectly to the point of strain, and no more.
“Do you understand me?” he repeats.
“Yes,” I gasp.
“Do you believe me?”
“I wish—I wish I could, but I don’t think I do.”
He shakes his head. “We’re going to have to do an exercise, okay?”
I nod frantically. Anything to please him. “Okay.”
“You’ll do exactly as I say, and you won’t lie to me. You won’t say something just because you think it’s what I want to hear. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good. Now, go to the bedroom.”