Page 54 of My Own Kind of Person

“Don’t be a baby,” she says, grinning.

I step back.

She reaches out. “Was that too—”

“I can’t.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you said you liked that.”

I shake my head. “I was wrong.”

She puts her hands behind her. “Okay.”

I break into a sweat. “What’s the matter with me?”

“Nothing. You’re sensitive.”

“I wish I wasn’t.” Little waves come toward my shoes. “I’m sorry about when we tried to have sex and I panicked. I’m sorry if I freaked you out.”

“I wasn’t freaked out. I was embarrassed.” She says it like she hates having the word in her mouth.

“I was the one who should be embarrassed.”

“Most guys wouldn’t hesitate to have sex with a girl who was naked in front of them.”

“I thought it was good I’m not like most guys.”

“It is.” Her voice fills with the fire she had in the car. “But it’s still embarrassing for a woman to put herself out there and not be enough for a man.”

“So, what, a girl can turn down a guy, but a guy has to be ready for sex all the time?”

Her face hardens. “It’s a double standard, but I live with double standards all the time. Everybody does.”

I blink like the moon is shining directly and only at me.

She brushes a stray hair out of her eyes. “Why did you panic?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“How could you not know?”

My voice cracks. “I don’t know. It’s like I don’t have access to certain parts of me. They’re blocked off.”

Heat rises from my chest and my eyes get soft. I can feel the tears pressing against them. I try to shove the tears back down, but it’s like I lost the ability, or I gave it up, or everything inside is too strong now. I’m overcome by years of emotion I never allowed myself to experience.

I step toward Christy and I open my arms, ready to finally let myself cry.

“Would you hold me?”

She steps back and puts her hands in the air.

“I can’t be a mother for you.”

This would be a painful thing to hear but I’ve already left my body and traveled further away than I can find. I’m not present when I point at her and say, “That’s a good call on your part.” I’m not present when I start driving and say, “I gotta sort out a few things about myself.” Nor when I say, “For example, right now I am completely disassociating.” I’m not there when she says, “I can’t be what you need me to be,” nor when she says, “Actually, I can be, but I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be anything for anyone except myself.” I’m not there when she says, “I think we should just be friends,” nor when I reply, “How about acquaintances?”

When we get to her driveway and she closes the car door behind her, I recede further. I reach a new level of disassociation. I am no longer floating elsewhere without emotion. I cease to exist entirely. I am nowhere at all. I am nothing.

But when I pull out of her driveway, when I turn off her road and drive under the gold streetlights lining the path home, when I roll down the windows and smell the fresh-cut grass, all the feelings reappear. My body tingles with pins and needles. My mouth goes dry. A wild, unknown emotion presses against my face. I turn my corner, and I see Mom’s car still isn’t in the driveway.