“Come in,” he commands, moving out of the way so I can enter.
As the door closes quietly behind me, Nate moves to sit on the edge of the bed. This time around, he isn’t urgent. He isn’t desperate to touch me or so angry he might combust.
He watches me with a calm, calculating expression as I fidget in front of him.
“Already forgetting who I am, old man?” I nag, falling into old habits in search of comfort. “The dementia—”
“Why did you call?” Nate interjects, his shoulders squared, his body primed for a fight.
I falter. Is he not willing to do the dance we’ve been so meticulously practicing for months? He’s acting differently, just as I am, and I hate it.
I want him to scream, to pin me down and pull me from the liquid death I’m drowning in.
“I… I was horny,” I offer, falling back on what I said last night.
But Nate shakes his head, his lips tilting into a frown. “No, that’s not it. I mean, sure, maybe youarehorny, but that’s not all there is. You look… worn out.”
I can feel my body sagging, giving in to the desire to let it all go. To speak and speak and never stop, if only so that he can comfort me. But Nate doesn’tcomfortpeople. He bullies them.
There really is no reason for me to share, so lying it is.
“Maybe I’m just bothered that Julian brought his little boyfriend to California. Into my home,” I spit out, and I try to conjure the anger I normally feel.
“And so you needed me to come here? So you can use me as some kind of sick rebound?” Nate asks.
He doesn’t particularly sound upset about it, but I hate the idea that he thinks that lowly of me. That he believes I would use his body to rid myself of thoughts of Julian.
“What? No. I just… I didn’t want to be alone. To be around it all.” It’s the complete truth, just not in relation to what he thinks.
Nate seems to debate this for a moment, watching me curiously. And as I fiddle with my own fingers and debate what to say next, he leans back on his palms, spreads his thick legs, and clicks his tongue.
“So you’re bothered that Julian is with Atlas, even though you said you’re happy for him?” He’s trying to dissect me with his words, and I don’t particularly like it.
“Yes?” But it comes out more like a question, as if I’m unsure.
I’m not unsure; I’m lying.
“Liar.”
I flinch at the word, almost a little convinced he’s reading my mind. “What do you mean?”
“Imean,”Nate continues, tilting his head at me as he talks, “that you’re not sad about Julian. In fact, I think you hardly feel anything at all.”
Motherfucker. What, has he been reading my diary? Not that I actually keep one; I’m just irritated he can read me this well.
“You’re full of shit,” I snap, attempting to hide the shock and the fear from my face. “You don’t know me.”
“You’re right,” Nate agrees. “I don’t know you. But I think I’m starting to understand you a bit better, even if I don’t want to. What is it, hm? What’s truly bothering you?”
“Like you care. You just admitted that you don’t even want to comprehend my emotions, so why are you prying?”
“Emotions,” Nate repeats. “What emotions? What are you feeling?”
He’s so fucking confusing. Does he want to know or not? Why do Iwantto tell him?
“Nothing,” I respond, but it’s too quick, too desperate. “I’m just upset that Julian—”
“No,” he sneers. “You’re not upset about Julian. Stop fucking lying to me.”
