Even though I’m not allergic to anything, I still fucking hesitate. What if I just haven’t eaten anything that I’m allergic to yet?
I shake my head.
I’ve had lasagna fifty million times. I’m not allergic to anything.
You’ve never had it whenhe’smade it.
I clench my fist under the table and force myself to remember what Dr. Madden told me almost every session:
It only becomes unsafe if you give in to it, Finley. The moment you give those thoughts what they want is the moment they make your actions unsafe.
I try my best to bring the fork to my mouth, but something stops me; something dark and determined.
“Maybe we should send someone to go and pick her up in the morning. She’ll probably be exhausted.” Even though my mind is preoccupied, I don’t miss the way Mom looks over at me as she speaks.
Do it.
Do it
Do it.
“I think that’s a great idea, Mom.” Wren smirks, nudging me with her foot under the table.
Everyone jumps as my fork clatters onto my plate. I stare at it like it’s burned me, like it’s offended me somehow.
“Finn?” Wren asks from beside me. “You okay?”
Concerned looks are watching me from all over the table.
I clear the lump from my throat. “Dropped it by accident. Sorry.”
I pick the fork back up, load food onto it, tap the underside of the table softly three times and shove the food into my mouth. It’s the only thing that bypasses it most times. Three is the magic number.
Gus, completely oblivious to the subtext of the conversation and my own personal battles, helpfully says, “Beckford has Uber.”
Even though Oakleigh would get in an Uber home over my dead body, it’s still nice to know I have an ally on this table.
“Uber is so impersonal,” my mom persists.
I keep my head down, my nose almost touching the plate as I tap under the table three times before shoveling more food into my mouth. In the corner of my eye, I spot Wren leaning over and whispering something in Gus’s ear. He looks over at me and smirks before pushing Wren’s curls from her face and planting a chaste kiss on her forehead.
And there goes my only ally.
I glare at my sister who giggles softly.
“What are you two laughing about?” Dad asks.
“Absolutely nothing,” I say through gritted teeth, my anxiety due to my food situation leaving a layer of agitation to lay everything else onto.
Was their obsession with Oakleigh and me always this intense? Was everyone so intent on mentioning it in every conversation? Maybe because I’ve only had to deal with this for a weekly twenty-minute phone call for the past year, I forgot what it was like to deal with it in person.
If only they all knew how painful these conversations are for me; knowing that everyone I love agrees that I would be well-suited to the woman I’m already in love with is a form of torture that I didn’t know would work as well as it does. The irony is that none of them know how I feel about her. None of them are aware that when she’s around, my chest feels tight with grief for a feeling I can never receive. They are blissfully unaware that she consumes my every thought; that the one kiss we shared will forever be branded onto my lips and in my memories. I wish there was a way to get them to stop. To just admit to themselves that Oakleigh and I will never be.
“So, Gus,” Dad says, thankfully changing the subject for what will probably only be five minutes. “Wren never properly explained what it is that you do.”
“I’m a farmer,” Gus says simply. “I own a pumpkin farm about ten minutes from here.”
“About ten minutes?” Wren asks with a knowing smile.
