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“Oh, right,” I say, wetting my lips. “Well, you know those things cost like thousands of dollars, and of course, I broke mine. Whoops. Do not ask me how, because you won’t believe me anyway.”
August’s hands tighten on me. “Come on, tell me. I think I earned it.”
Just remembering how he earned it is making me hard again. “Oh god, you so did. Wait, hold on. And this is important so let me get a little sidetracked. How are you so okay with all this? I mean, you just frotted and came…with me. Your stepbrother, who is a dude, and who you used to hate.”
“I never hated you, but I am fine, Em. It was hot. I liked it. There’s nothing much else to discuss. Now tell me about the insulin pump. Stop deflecting.”
“Fine.Fine. Okay, well, I um, well, the older insulin pumps had this tubing that attached to you. I managed to snag it on something which tore it off, and then, of course, I needed to replace that, so I took off the whole pump and fuck…well, I ran it over with Thomas’ car. Just crunched it to pieces.”
“You…ran it over? You put your pump in the driveway and just…backed over it? And this was…by accident?”
“Yep. Pretty much.”
Augusts looks at me for a moment and then bursts out laughing, his body shaking with his deep cackles.
“Hey, it’s not that funny,” I say but I can’t help but smile. His face is so fucking gorgeous when he’s happy.
“Sorry,” he finally says, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Go on.”
“So, yeah, Thomas says he won’t help me get a new one until I’m more responsible. But it’s been years, and that’s never going to happen. I mean, look at me. Do you think this ADHD brain of mine will ever change?” I snort. “No, no, it will not. It’s something I just have tolive with. The meds help, but they only take me down like a notch. One notch. I’m impulsive, forgetful, and unorganized. That’s never going away. So yeah, there’s a good chance that I’ll ruin my next pump too and pretty much anything else of value that I get. If I don’t break them, I’ll lose them. It’s just how I work.”
“Shit.”
“I’m practically a walking encyclopedia of issues. My poor neurons don’t know which way they want to fire. Believe me, you don’t even want to know.”
He stills beneath me and says, “I do though. I want to know everything about you. Tell me more.”
For a moment, I question whether I should or not, because once he knows, thenhe knows. There’s no stuffing that shit back in the turkey. Part of me worries that he won’t like me anymore once he knows the whole truth. That he’ll run screaming for the hills. But he hasn’t yet, and I guess it can’t really get much worse than mauling his face like a cantankerous mountain lion.
“Fine. But you asked for it,” I bite down on my bottom lip and then just lay it all out on the table. “So, you now know about the ADHD because,duh. I’m combined type, so I’m both inattentive and hyperactive. I can’t stop moving and I’m also up in the clouds most days. I was born with that, of course, but my therapist also recently told me I have PTSD from all the, you know, bad stuff that happened to me as a kid. This last year was the first time that I’ve finally felt like I’m no longer depressed, but I’m still an anxious wreck most of the time…and then there’s the insomnia and the nightmares. To top it off, I have major attachment issues. Like, I have this huge fear of abandonment that I can’t quite seem to…abandon. Fuck if that isn’t a play on words. I should teach English. Write a book, an autobiography about my ridiculous, fucked-up life….”
“Em,” August says softly, and my voice trails off as I glance down at him. He presses a hand to my cheek, and I lean into it.
“You don’t need to make light of it.”
“Hell yeah, I do. It’s either that or sob uncontrollably. Sometimes it’s better to laugh.”
August mulls over that for a moment and then says softly, “It’s okay if that’s who you are.”
I exhale, “What?”
“All of that is okay. You don’t need to change who you are.”
“Well, my therapist would disagree. He’s always harping on coping mechanisms and personal growth….”
“I know, and that’s good, but I mean…” he swallows. “I accept you for who you are at this moment. You don’t need to feel bad or embarrassed about any of it.”
Well, fuck. Can I marry this man? Who even says shit like that? I got us lost in the goddamn mountains and then beat the snot out of him in my sleep, and he’s spouting off romance movie-type shit. Should I respond with “you complete me” or “I wish I knew how to quit you”?
I sniffle and press my face into his neck.
“Please stop being so perfect,” I mutter. “I can’t stand it.”
“I’m not perfect.”
“Oh, you so are. You are so high up on the pedestal that there’s no coming down now. You’re stuck up there. I have to crane my neck to look up at you.”
He huffs and presses his hands against my back, grounding me.
