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My disability? Discovered.
Home? Moved.
Heart? Stolen.
Sexuality? Confessed.
PDA? Serving an eyeful.
Single status? Taken.
Everything was upended, tipped on its side. Mere weeks ago, just one of these changes would have set me off. But having them all happen at once… I should be rocking in a corner, skin raw from itching, AirPods sealing my ears, and counting to three over and over again.
I wasn’t.
What was I doing?
Riding shotgun in my boyfriend’s car as he drove us to breakfast with my friends.
Maybe I was dissociating after all. Maybe that was why I wasn’t having a meltdown and throwing punches. After all, my ears were ringing. I did have some random and epically embarrassing outburst where I practically accused Arsen of keeping me a secret.
I hate secrets.
Ironic because you have so many.
I shook my head and swallowed past the lump in my throat. I don’t have as many as before.
I didn’t even realize I felt that way until my stomach was tight and the words were popping out of my mouth like popcorn kernels exposed to heat. As alarmed as I was by the word vomit, I couldn’t stop, and truthfully, it felt good to confess.
Perhaps I was too good at disassociating. I did it without realizing, hiding my own emotions from myself until they reared their ugly head and took everyone by surprise.
A hand reached across the center console, warm fingers gently brushing mine from the bracelet I was fidgeting with and entangling ours together.
I took in every detail, the way the sleeve of his white shirt caught in his bracelets, the thick veins in the back of his hand, and how comfortably his fingers fit between mine. His skin was warm, the metal rings on his fingers cool. His nails were clean and neat whereas mine were rough from being chewed. As I stared, his thumb stroked over the back of my hand, a sweet caress that made my stomach burn.
A sudden wave of possessiveness came over me, and I tugged his hand deeper into my lap and then wrapped my free arm around it, shielding the way he held me.
“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?” he asked, letting me cling to his arm.
“Not as much as there should be.” I pondered.
He fired a quick look in my direction before turning back to the road, head tilting. “What?”
I gazed at his profile, getting distracted and counting the piercings lining his ear. There were seven.
He gave my hand a little squeeze, and it was as if he pulled a string at my back, the one that released my secrets. “You calm me down.”
“I do?”
“Mm,” I hummed. “My track record has taught me I should be wigging out right about now.”
“Wigging out,” he mused.
I felt myself smile. Smiling usually wasn’t this easy.
“I told you I like routine. My life has been so far out of routine lately. I should be freaking out.”
“But you aren’t?”
