“Do you have an example?”
“Not any I fear wouldn’t disgust you.”
I suppose that makes sense. It’s scary to be vulnerable and share the stuff we hate about ourselves. It’s easy to be certain everyone else will hate it, too. But, still.
I set my empty containers in one of the empty fast food bags, smooth out my skirt, and tangle my fingers in my lap. “I’m curious now.”
He sighs, defeated. “Everything in my head is a thinly-veiled power play. I’m obsessed with obsession. Even small rejections hurt more than make sense. I’m constantly battling to focus on how proud I am of your growth and shut the selfish up. Putting your pens down hurt. A lot. A lot more than it should. I don’t want you to ever not do what I say, no matter how small my command. If you hadn’t blown my mind away by hugging me, if you had said you were tired and gone to bed, I’d have lain awake all night, hating myself for what I’d made you do, yet questioning what was wrong with me if you didn’t want to keep doing it. My sick desires contradict themselves. And it all boils down to insecurity. I need to be the best. I need to be everyone’s favorite. If I’m not perfect and adored, I’m worthless. It’s a survival mechanism that my parents bred into my filthy blood. And I’ve worried about telling you these sorts of things, because you are so kind and so self-sacrificing. I can’t want youto overlook your needs for mine. I shouldn’t want you to please me to the detriment of yourself. Ineedyour free will involved, or else it all means nothing, but that free will can’t just be provoked by your aptitude for self-denial. You need to want me for the sake of wanting. Even though…thedisgustingthing that Ineed…is for your free will to get on its knees, because you—to the glorious depths of your beautiful, pure soul—are desperateto idolize me.”
I don’t know about getting on my knees in most scenarios. Getting back up would be the least graceful thing in existence, and my knees aren’t the happiest they’ve had to carry my weight around since puberty hit me like a train. They are, often, quite sore and very sad. That said… “I already adore you.”
“I know.” He refuses to meet my eyes. “But it’s not enough yet.”
“We’ll need to get a really thick yoga mat or something if you want me on my knees. And I’ll need a stand or something to help me back up.”
A broken chuckle leaves him. “That’s…not exactly… I’m not completely speaking literally.”
I flush. “Sorry. I’m not sure I’m following then.”
“Because it doesn’t make sense.” He closes the rest of the nachos, puts them back in the bottom of the bag, and wipes his hands on a brown napkin. “It doesn’t work, not with you. I am not allowed with you to let you put yourself aside for me, even though that is the exact devotion I crave. It is not feasible for my wishes to align constantly with yours. And, yet, I want you. Only you. So I—knowing my wants are gross—need to deal with them and be better, for you.”
My very heart trembles.
He frees a heavy breath, scrubs his face, and buries his fingers in his hair. “This is me, trying to be better, trying to respect you, trying to warn you of every possible eventuality Imight screw up. And this is me, asking you if you’d still like to be a couple anyway. If you might weather the risk. If you trust me enough. If you know I will repent if I ever let my horrible wants overshadow your needs. If you believe I know you are worth it. Because, Clara, I adore you, too, and to drown in whatever love you might plan for me will be enough.”
Careful of all the bags on the floorboards, I inch toward him, touch his chest, and skate my hand down to the hem of his shirt.
His body quakes as I roll the fabric up to reveal the colored-in scales of his dragon tattoo, then the collection of my name—all over. Bending, I kiss the tense muscles of his breast, feel the hammer of his heart beneath my lips, hear his hissing curse when it bursts from his mouth. I taste him, and he melts, latching his hands around my shoulders for stability.
“We’re perfect together,” I say. “I need to practice aligning my actions with what’s best for me. You need to practice handling rejection without making it a part of your self-worth.” Pressed against him, I meet his eyes. “You can own me, Lukas. You can control me, demand anything. And if I say no, we can talk about it. It doesn’t need to leave you stranded. You can coerce. Iwantto please you. I’m happy to please you. I need someone I feel safe enough with to want. And that’s you.”
More cusses tumble as his breaths go ragged.
“You have never, ever, asked for anything I have been sickened to provide. Not like my mother and father. Their wishes have often gone against my beliefs or physical abilities. When I fail to meet standards I don’t understand, they refuse to explain. You’re clear. You’re kind. You don’t yell at me or make me feel stupid, for anything.” I cup his cheek. “It’s easy with you. I want us to be open with each other. I want you to treat me like I’m strong.”
“I’m sorry.” His throat bobs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that I was implying—” He wets his lips. “—I don’t think that you aren’tstrong enough to handle me at my worst. I just know that my worst is…so ugly. You shouldn’thaveto handle me in it.”
“We’ll never know what I can handle or how beautiful I might think your worst is if you don’t give me a chance. I can’t think of a single thing I’d be afraid to talk to you about. I know if I start to shut down, you’ll take care of me. You arekind, Lukas.”
His entire body shakes. “I’m not. I force myself to be. I am anything but kind.”
“Forcing yourself to be something isbeingsomething. Right now, I’m forcing myself to be strong. Because I want you to be yourself with me so badly it’s an ache in my chest. I want to be as safe for you as you are for me. That’s important to me. That’s important in a relationship. I don’t want you to second guess everything I’d like us to share. I want you to feel as beautiful in my eyes as you’ve convinced me I am in yours. Can we try that?”
His eyes close as a pained, “Please,” leaves him.
I smile at my big, strong, demanding, controlling,idolize meman who is begging for me, then I sink into his shaking arms and listen to his heart pound beneath the marks of my glitter pens.
Do I love him yet?
Yeah. I do.
