Chapter Twenty-Three
Well, I guess we can call that shooting my shot.
Benji stares back at me, wide-eyed. Then he blinks a few times, squares his shoulders, and confidently says, “No, you don’t.”
Excuse me?
I’m so gob smacked by the sass in his reply that I decide to run with that first thought as my actual response. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t want me,” he repeats himself with the same ‘I know I’m right’ attitude.
If this Boy doesn’t have emotional whiplash from tonight, I’ll be surprised. He’s gone from sweet, vulnerable Little to bratty adult in what feels like zero point three seconds.
Folding my arms and arching my eyebrows I ask, “Really?”
He nods, blond hair falling into his eyes.
Brushing it away casually, he explains, “Contrary to what tonight’s whole thing might lead you to believe, I’m not some sweet Little or Middle who wants cuddles all the time.
I’m bratty, and high maintenance, and too much work for a Daddy. Too much of a troublemaker.”
Oh.
A metaphorical lightbulb flares to life above my head.
Earlier, he said nobody wanted to be friends with a troublemaker like him.
Now he’s repeating that sentiment again with conviction.
Someone somewhere must have said these things to him once upon a time, and he’s been living with the belief that everyone will feel the same way once he lets them get too close, so he digs his heels in and hisses and snarls and convinces everyone around him that he is exactly what he says he is. A bit like a spooked kitten.
Well, too bad. I’m stubborn when I want to be, too.
“Why?” I prod patiently, cocking my head. “Why do you think you’re a troublemaker? Why do you think you’re too much work?”
Big blue eyes fill with confusion. “What do you mean ‘why’? I am too much. I’m argumentative, and I push boundaries and buttons, and I like getting in trouble—”
“Usually pre-negotiated and on your own terms, though,” I toss the caveat in. “You like getting in trouble when you know it’s coming. When you are deliberately trying to get in trouble. When you know exactly what the consequences will be.”
He rolls his eyes but concedes. “Sure. Whatever.”
As frustrating as his attitude is, it’s hot.
But now is not an appropriate time for that kind of thinking. We can play around with his sassing later.
“So,” I begin again, still calm and patient, squeezing his thigh reassuringly, “what makes you too much work?”
He flounders for a bit. “I’m abrasive.”
“Not always, and, let’s be honest, everyone can be abrasive at times. It’s called being human.”
“I’m whiny.”
“Same thing.”
Scowling, Benji says, “I pee my pants on purpose because it’s fun.”
“Ignoring the fact that I’m into that, with the exception of the camp —where accidents were expected— have you ever done that with someone you didn’t know would be interested in playing along? Where it wasn’t pre-discussed or at worst insinuated?”
He goes silent. It drags on for a few long moments, then he looks away and shrugs. “No.”
I let that sit for a few seconds longer. “So far, you haven’t convinced me, Benji.”
The fight has left him, but as his shoulders sag, he still says, “People always get sick of me. I’m too blunt. I’m picky. I’m moody. I’m bitchy and opinionated and performative.”
“You’re human,” I repeat, practically underlining the word six times with my voice. “You’re allowed to be moody and picky and blunt and…whatever other flaws you’ve invented for yourself. I met bratty, sassy Benji at camp and I liked him a hell of a lot, you realize.”
“You won’t always like me.”
“I might not always like your behavior, no. But you won’t always like the way I act or the things I do, either.”
Finally out of arguments, he sighs. “I’m just not used to anyone wanting me to stick around long-term.”
It’s all I can do not to snort. “Yeah, I’ve kind of picked up on that.”
Benji’s quiet again, but he’s not combative or tense anymore, so I count that as a win. “It’s not healthy, I know,” he admits after a beat. “I’m messed up.”
“You’re not.”
“I am,” he insists forcefully, then slumps back against the couch and cringes. “I probably need to get help. I just…I’ve been managing fine on my own, you know?”
“Mmm,” I hum my acknowledgement, even though I’m not sure our definitions of ‘managing fine’ match up. “Getting help —talking to a therapist or whatever— that’s not a sign that you’re not managing.”
“No, I know that. I just…ugh, I can’t explain it. I didn’t think I needed a relationship or a Daddy, and then you come along and you’re kind of perfect for me and suddenly I’m wanting all the things I’ve never needed before…”
“Wanting and needing are different things. You don’t need a Daddy. That doesn't make enjoying having one a bad thing.”
Drumming his fingers on the arm of the couch, Benji nods.
“Logically, yeah, I know that. But…” He trails off, shaking his head.
The look he gives me is somehow both plaintive and apologetic.
“I really like you, Kris. More than I’ve liked anyone ever.
But I’m not comfortable getting into a relationship that’s so…
imbalanced…because I’m not in the right place mentally, I guess. That is what’s not fair to you.”
I want to fight him on that point, too. Because nobody is perfect, and this idea that you have to love yourself before someone else can love you makes for a fantastic catchphrase but is ultimately wrong.
But at the same time, I can see a sense of something —realization, or calmness, or resolve, or some measure of all three— coming over him.
Plus, I’m not a monster. No means no, even if I don’t want to hear it.
So instead of continuing to push, I give his knee another squeeze. “Can we at least stay friends?”
A small, but genuine smile pulls the corner of his lips up. “I’d like that.”