Page 39 of Egg Me On

"You're not leaving," he said, the words emerging more command than statement.

Something snapped inside me—all the confusion, the hurt, the desperate need for clarity crystallizing into sharp-edged anger.

"Fuck you," I spat, heat rising to my face. "You don't get to decide that. You don't get to fuck me senseless one minute and treat me like a stranger the next, then tell me where I can and can't take my business."

His expression faltered, but only for a moment before that familiar mask slipped back into place. But instead of walking away or shutting down like I expected, he reached for his phone, swiping the lock screen away. After a moment, he held it out to me, his expression unreadable.

"What?" I demanded, not moving to take it.

He swallowed hard and pushed it towards me again.

I hesitated, then took the phone, curiosity overriding my anger. The screen showed a social media post—Cash's account, I realized, recognizing his username. A series of photos filled the grid, and my breath caught as I realized they were all of us. Together.

The first was from the campout. It was me laughing by the fire, Cash watching me with an expression I'd never seen on his face before. Soft. Open. Almost... reverent. The next showed us on his Harley, coming around a mountain curve, my arms wrapped around his waist, my rainbow-striped helmet gleaming in the sun. Another captured us at breakfast, me flipping pancakes while Cash leaned against a tree nearby, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he watched me.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I swiped through them. Each photo told the same story—me, animated and talking; Cash, still and watching, something naked and vulnerable in his eyes that the camera had captured but I had somehow missed.

And then I saw the caption.

There's a lot of speculation about the guy who's been spotted on my bike, and, well, you guys were right. We kind of have a thing going. Nothing’s been decided, and he’s sort of pissed off at me right now, but I’m so fucking into him.

He's this amazing guy who fits me like no one else ever has, on the bike and off. He talks to me, even when I’m grumpy. Tries to guess what I’m thinking when I can’t get the words out. And he’s put up with a lot. I'm pretty much head over heels for him so I want to fight for him.

My friends say you can see it when I look at him, but somehow when he asks me, I can't ever find the words. I guess I start to feel afraid he might not love me back. Might not feel the way I do. And the words get stuck.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had that problem. Sometimes I can talk just fine. Mostly when I feel comfortable, when I know how things will go. Other times, fear and anxiety take over, and I can’t say what needs to be said. Even when it’s the most important fucking thing on Earth to me.

So I'm putting it into words here, where he can read them, where you all can know I'm taken. And it scares me shitless, but looking at these photos gives me courage. Because he's the most beautiful man. He sees me, he stands up for me, he makes me laugh harder than anyone ever has. And when he's on the back of my bike, it's like he's a part of me.

I love him so much, and I hope that one day he can see that. Hear me say that.

I read it again. And again. My vision blurred, throat tightening as the words sank in. Head over heels. Beautiful. Love him so much. Words Cash had never said to my face, never even hinted at—yet here they were, declared publicly for anyone to see.

I looked up from the phone to find Cash watching me, his usual stoicism fractured by unmistakable anxiety—a muscle ticking in his jaw, fingers fidgeting at his sides, eyes darting between my face and the ground like he couldn't bear to look directly at me but couldn't look away either.

"You posted this?" I asked, voice embarrassingly unsteady. "For everyone to see?"

He nodded once, a sharp, jerky movement, his eyes darting around like he was nervous.

"But you..." I swallowed hard, struggling to reconcile the man who'd written those beautiful words with the one who'd stood silent in that bathroom, who'd let me think I meant nothing. "You never said anything. Not when I asked if it was just sex. Not when I practically begged you to tell me what I meant to you. Is this why? You really just can’t get the words out?"

His throat worked, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He opened his mouth, closed it again, frustration flashing across his face.

"I kept thinking you cared," I continued, the words spilling out now that the dam had broken. "The way you touched me, how you held me at night, how you'd look at me sometimes when you thought I wasn't paying attention. The way you take care of me. But then you go silent, shut me out completely, and I think I’m going crazy. Making it all up in my head because I want it so badly. Want you so badly."

Cash reached for the phone, his fingers brushing mine, but then he dropped his hand and let me keep it, his eyes on the words he’d written. For a moment, I thought he might retreat again, might run from this conversation like he had in the bathroom. Instead, he looked down at the screen, at the photos of us together, and something in his expression shifted, softened into a vulnerability I'd only glimpsed in unguarded moments.

And for the first time, I started to understand that his silence wasn't about indifference or fear of commitment or any of the other explanations I'd tortured myself with. Maybe it was something else entirely. Something I'd been too wrapped up in my own hurt to see.

I looked back at the phone, swiping back to his love declaration, noticing for the first time the hundreds of comments beneath Cash's post. Most were supportive—friends and followers cheering him on, telling him he could win me back, that he just needed to be brave. But scattered among the well-wishes, another phrase kept appearing: selective mutism. The words jumped out at me, repeated by several commenters who seemed to recognize something in Cash's description of being unable to find words. Something familiar. Something with a name.

"Can I...?"

I scrolled through the comments, my pulse quickening with each mention of those two words.

@MotoLifer789: I recognize those feelings man. You should talk to someone about your anxiety. You may even explore a selective mutism diagnosis.

@RiderChick303: My brother has selective mutism and this post made me cry, because it reminds me of him. Some people don't get that the words just won't come sometimes. But it’s worth it to try and make him understand. I believe in you, Cash.

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