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“They’ll wait.” I assured him. “Tell me why you can’t keep me.”
“Because you won’t keep me.”
A lump formed in my throat. It was large and uncomfortable, but no matter how much I swallowed, it refused to dissolve. I realized it was denial, so much of it that it backed up my entire esophagus in protest to his words.
I could promise him otherwise. It was on the tip of my tongue. But those felt like such easy words. Meaningless.
I wanted to know why he thought I couldn’t handle him. Why no one besides that moron Kruger seemed to be able to.
“Tell me why, Matthew,” I requested, stroking the side of his head and earning a strong whiff of chlorine.
Surprisingly, he did.
13
Prism
“My entire life, I’ve been different,” I said, deciding to just tell him. It was shitty timing. Of all the moments I could decide to split myself open, it had to be now? In some rando parking lot right before I had to face the cops. Right before my life was uprooted and we moved to a new home.
But would there ever really be a good time?
Maybe being in his lap gave me a sense of security. Maybe, even though I shouldn’t, I hoped he’d be an exception in a sea of the same. Or perhaps I was just tired. Tired of trying to protect and explain myself.
Telling him would chase him off faster than anything else, and at this point, if I didn’t get rid of him lickety-split, all my pieces would rearrange around him, and when he left, I’d collapse. It was what scared me most. I didn’t want to go back to that dark place. The small preview I had the night in jail was a harsh reminder.
Better to get it over with. Chase him off, deal with the cops, and then I could adjust to life in the new townhouse. At least I’d have my own room.
“Different how?” he asked, stroking my hair again.
It was hard to think when he did that because I’d rather feel. It seemed the things I didn’t want to feel severely outnumbered the things I did, so when I found one, I tended to fixate on it. How easy it would be to fixate on Arsen. Rubbing my cheek against his shoulder, I sighed.
“You like my shirt?” he asked, his voice a low rumble near my head.
“Mm,” I hummed. “It’s soft.”
“That’s why I wore it. You like soft things. Was hoping you’d want to touch me.”
“You wore this for me?” I asked, trailing my fingers over the sleeve. He seemed to like the touch because he shifted a bit, pushing more of his arm out but keeping his hand on me. I could get used to this. To him.
No. Get on with it.
“Do you have sensory issues?” he asked.
My fingers stopped stroking the cotton shirt, hand falling near his wrist. “Yeah, I guess. That’s what most people would say.”
“What would you say?”
“That I have very strong likes and dislikes.”
He made a sound. Was it amusement? “Okay, so tell me what you do and do not like.”
“I don’t like sticky stuff. It makes me panic… like I can’t get away and it makes it hard to breathe. And that fake leather material.” I shuddered, thinking about the seats in the back of the police car. “It’s smooth but tacky like it’s trying to trick you. Pretends to be smooth, but when you touch it, you get stuck. Texture is okay but not aggressive texture. Not the scratchy kind. It makes me feel like my insides are screaming. It’s so loud, but no one else can hear the screams.”
“But you like soft stuff,” he said. “Like my shirt.”
“Yeah. I like soft stuff. Velvet. Silk. Real leather is good, like these seats,” I mentioned, glancing at the driver’s seat he was no longer in.
“How about my bracelets?”
