The truth is not gentle. Good. Gentle would not hold.
"I don't want to do that again."
"Wanting won't be enough."
"I know."
"What will?"
I look at the dark screens. The chairs. The second screen angled slightly toward the place where I usually sit. Even now. Even after yesterday. He left it that way.
"Not leaving before I say the first true thing," I say.
Caleb's eyes close.
When they open, they are wet.
"What is it now?" he asks.
The first true thing.
Not the polished thing. Not the statement. Not the speech. Not the defensive argument. The sentence under the sentence.
"I thought if I came apart in front of you, you'd see I wasn't worth the trouble."
Caleb goes still.
There.
The actual thing.
"Nolan."
"That's what it was. The reporter. The file. All of it. But under that, I thought you were going to watch everything get ugly and realize you had attached yourself to a man who doesn't know how to live without a career or a closet."
He comes around the console.
Slowly.
This time, I let him.
He stops in front of me. "I already know you're trouble."
I huff once. Almost a laugh. It hurts.
"That's your answer?"
"No." He reaches for my hand. Stops before touching. "My answer is that you do not get to decide what I can love because you are afraid of being loved badly."
The room tilts.
Not from panic.
Something else.
"Can I touch you?" he asks.
"Yes."
