Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I don’t want to fuck up our date, so I shake out of it, doing my best to pack my bullshit down. I continue telling him about Van Gogh and his career, managing to enjoy the rest of our date, before I drive Dax back to my place.
I can’t even wait to get him inside my place before my hands are all over him right outside the door to my apartment, our lips locked. He’s still got the taste of mint on his tongue from when he popped one in while we were at the museum.
Despite the brief hiccup earlier, I find myself feeling much better with him.
After I finally get him into my place, stealing a few more kisses, I say, “I’m not so bad at this date thing, am I?” I sound about as cocky as I feel right now as I lean back, but just a few centimeters. Like I don’t want to pull any farther away from him than that.
“I guess you can be taught.” His eyes are bright, full of that vibrancy I’m used to seeing around the guys. It makes me reflect on something within myself.
“What?” he asks, catching me off guard.
“I thought I was difficult to read.”
“It’s getting easier.”
I consider telling him what I was thinking but hesitate, which he must notice too, since he says, “Whatever it is, you know you can tell me.”
“I don’t want to ruin a perfectly good date.”
“I have a feeling it’s not gonna ruin anything.”
I’m quiet for a moment, realizing I don’t hear the screaming in my head or feel like this pain will overwhelm me into a panic attack, and I know why.
“It’s interesting,” I observe. “Because even though it hurts, it’s a little easier to think about her when you’re here with me. Doesn’t feel so weighty and all-consuming. I know I haven’t told you much…”
“I’m here for whatever you want to talk about.”
It’s all right on the tip of my tongue. Those things I’ve beaten down, that I’ve restrained myself from telling anyone. Those things I know would crush Dad if he ever knew I’d uttered them. But being with Dax like this, feeling so safe, I open my mouth, wondering if anything will even come out, and say, “Mom was the one who encouraged my work. She noticed early on that I had a knack for drawing and painting. She tried to get Dad to appreciate it, but he doesn’t think like that. It’s hard not to think about her when art’s involved, which is something I’m used to because that’s my life now, but then the Van Gogh stuff along with it… I thought about how much pain she must have been in, but she didn’t have an outlet like Dad or I did. It was all trapped in her head.”
I’m quiet, that inner struggle starting up once again, but I push past it, keep going. “I’ve seen a lot of movies and shows where people have a loved one who’s clearly struggling, and they are depressed or anxious and grappling with something, and maybe they don’t help and should have, maybe they try and it works or doesn’t, but with Mom, I didn’t have a clue. Dad didn’t have a clue. No one did. Outwardly, she was bright and excited about the world. She could light up a room with a smile, and I know that’s cliché as fuck, but it’s true. Sometimes I run through the weeks before it happened, and I think, What did I miss? What didn’t I see? There must’ve been something. I feel guilty for not catching on that something was wrong.”
My words are softer, gentler than usual. More like a scared child than the guy I show the rest of the world, who seems like he’s always about to get into a fistfight.
Dax rests his hand on my cheek, stroking gently. It’s hard to understand how he can possibly know that’s exactly what I need right now.
“Dad found her…in their bedroom. No note. No explanation. Just the end. And how does he tell me? He calls me while I’m at school. Tells me something’s wrong with Mom, but he can’t say more. That he’s coming to pick me up, but instead, my aunt shows up. There I was, worried Mom’s in the hospital, maybe because I couldn’t imagine anything worse ever happening to her. But it was worse. So much fucking worse.”
As the feelings that plagued me that day grip me again, I notice Dax’s gentle expression, just listening as he strokes his thumb across my cheek, and I lean into his palm. I tear up, I’m not sure if it’s from the pain of the memory or because it feels like such a relief to get it out. Whatever it is, it urges me on. “I expected Dad to be there for me, and he was through the funeral, telling me everything would be okay, before leaving me with my aunt and uncle while he checked himself into a wellness facility for months.”