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“Is that why you’ve been quiet then?” I ask, piecing it together. Part of me wants to tell him how much the silence scared me. How many times I checked my phone, but now isn’t the time.
“I guess, yeah.”
“Are you okay?”
“I will be. I just need some time. I’m sorry, Evan. I’ve never really had someone care about me. Josh gets it, but he mostly leaves me alone until I resurface on my own. I’ve just never had anyone else who’d notice if I did that before. Or care.”
Twenty-five years, and no one noticed. Fuck. I think about my mom calling if I don’t text back within a day. I never thought of that as something someone might not have.
“I care, Marcus,” I admit. “I want to be that person.”
He’s quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is rougher than before. “I don’t really know how to let anyone be there for me like that.”
“Well, are you willing to try?”
“I want to.” He says it like it surprises him a little, hearing himself say it out loud. “I can’t promise I’ll be good at it. Old habits don’t exactly die because I want them to.”
“That’s okay. Just… tell me when you need space instead of just disappearing into it. Even if all you say is ‘I need a few days,’ that’s enough. I just need something.”
“I can do that… Or try, at least.”
“That’s all I’m asking for.”
“Okay.” He exhales. “I think I’m gonna crash. I’m… tired.”
“Okay. Get some sleep.”
He hangs up before I can say goodnight, and for one wild second, I think about booking a flight to Chicago, just to sit next to him so he doesn’t need to be alone.
Then the oven timer goes off, and I remember he asked for time and I have to respect that.
CHAPTER 17
Marcus
“So.” Dr. Patel’s face fills half my laptop screen. She’s propped against her usual bookshelf backdrop, coffee mug in hand. “Tell me about Thanksgiving.”
I’ve been seeing her for eight or so years now, twice a month—sometimes more depending on the season. She’s helped me through the depression diagnosis, two half-hearted attempts at dating women, coming out to my parents, and every fallout since. If anyone’s earned the right to ask that question without me deflecting, it’s her.
“It was Thanksgiving,” I say anyway because sometimes being guarded is still easier.
She just raises an eyebrow and waits. She’s good at waiting and knows it’ll make me crack.
“Fine. It was the same as every year. Mom asked if I’d found a nice girl. Again. Dad didn’t say ten words the whole night. I left after less than twenty-four hours because I couldn’t do more than that.” I shrug at the camera. “Same as it always is.”
“And Evan? How’d that part of the trip go?” Evan’s been taking up a lot of time in our sessions lately. It’s easier to focus on the bright spot in my life rather than everything else that makes me feel like a failure.
“Good, actually. Really good.” My answer comes across more like a question.
“You don’t say that like it’s good news.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Walk me through it.”
So I do. I tell her about the hotel room, and how we talked about our families. About the phone call afterward, when I finally picked up and everything about Mom and Dad just came pouring out of me. How he said “Fuck your parents,” and it felt like permission to be angry instead of just numb.
I leave out the parts that are just ours to keep.
