Page 40 of Egg Me On

@GearHead_Alex: As someone with severe anxiety and selective mutism myself, I feel this post in my bones. The words are there but they get stuck. Writing them down is so much easier. Hope he understands.

My hands trembled as I opened a browser and typed "selective mutism" into the search bar. The definition appeared at the top of the results:

Selective mutism is an anxiety disorder characterized by a person's inability to speak in specific social situations, such as with classmates at school or relatives they don't see very often. It typically starts in childhood but can persist into adulthood. People with selective mutism can often speak normally in some situations, but struggle in others, and it’s important to remember that it’s an inability to speak, not a choice they’re making.

I scrolled further, scanning through articles, reading things aloud. “Is this what happens to you?” I asked, meeting Cash’s eyes. “It says adults with selective mutism experience intense anxiety in certain social contexts that prevents themfrom speaking, despite having normal language capabilities. The words feel physically 'stuck,' creating the experience of a 'blocked throat' or 'frozen vocal cords.' Many describe knowing exactly what they want to say but being physically unable to produce the words.”

He nodded, looking a little embarrassed.

My vision blurred with tears as pieces fell into place. Cash wasn't cold or indifferent. He wasn't playing games or stringing me along. The words were there, but something—anxiety, maybe—prevented him from saying them in the moments when it mattered most.

I remembered all the times he'd gone silent when I'd asked direct questions about his feelings. The way he'd freeze up in emotional situations. How he could talk endlessly about motorcycles and mechanics but clam up completely when the conversation turned personal. The pained frustration in his eyes in that bathroom when I'd asked if it was just sex, like he was fighting against an invisible barrier.

I stood on my tiptoes, reaching up to cup his stubbled jaw, and kissed him gently. A tear slipped down my cheek, landing where our lips met, salt mingling with the familiar taste of him.

"I'm such an asshole," I murmured against his mouth. "I should have realized. I should have seen it wasn't that you didn't want to tell me, but that you couldn't."

He shook his head, one large hand coming up to brush the tears from my face, and he leaned in to kiss my forehead, my cheeks, my lips.

I pulled back slightly, studying his face. The strong jaw, the warm brown eyes that had watched me with such tenderness in those photos. This man, who looked so tough, whose tattooed exterior and taciturn nature made him seem unapproachable, untouchable. And all along, beneath that carefully constructed armor, was someone who felt so deeply he couldn't put it into words.

"Is it easier to type?" I asked softly. "When you need to tell me something important?"

Cash sighed, teeth worrying his bottom lip in that way I'd come to recognize as a sign of his internal struggle. After a moment, he nodded and took the phone back. His fingers moved quickly over the screen, typing out words he couldn't voice.

He turned the phone toward me, and I read:

The words get stuck sometimes, especially when I'm nervous or anxious. Especially when it matters. And you matter more than anyone. I never wanted to hurt you, I just need to find a way to say how I feel. And I’m scared I can’t give you what you need.

Something broke open inside my chest, a dam bursting to flood me with so much emotion I could barely breathe. All this time, I'd interpreted his silence as rejection, as indifference, when it had been the opposite.

I flung myself at him, arms wrapping around his neck as I kissed him with all the pent-up longing and newfound understanding coursing through me. His arms encircled my waist immediately, lifting me slightly as he returned the kiss with equal fervor. When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, I stared into his eyes, seeing clearly now what had been there all along.

"You have nothing to be nervous about with me," I said fiercely, cupping his face between my hands. "Because I love you too, Cash. More than anything. More than I've ever loved anyone. That’s why it hurt so much when you wouldn’t say anything."

His eyes widened, pupils dilating as the words landed. I felt a tremor run through his powerful body, a slight shaking that revealed the depth of his emotion more eloquently than any words could have.

I kissed him again, slower this time, pouring everything I felt into the connection of our lips, the slide of my tongue against his. His hands tightened on my waist, pulling me closer until there was no space between us, just shared heat and the thundering of our hearts in perfect sync.

"You can communicate however works for you," I whispered when we parted, foreheads still pressed together. "You can write words down, or text me, or just look at me the way you do in those photos. Or you can just hold me and kiss me. Buy me sparkly helmets. I don't care, as long as you don't shut me out. As long as you let me understand."

I peppered his face with kisses—his cheekbones, his eyelids, the corner of his mouth. "I love you," I repeated, hoping that saying it might somehow ease his anxiety, might make it easier for him to believe it. "I love you so much, Cash. And you give me everything I need. As long as I know what’s going on.”

He buried his face against my neck, his breath warm against my skin. His arms tightened around me, holding me like I might disappear if he loosened his grip. I felt the slight tremor still running through him, the physical manifestation of emotions too big for his body to contain.

He said nothing, but this time I understood what the silence meant. Not rejection or indifference or uncertainty, but a different kind of communication—one expressed through the press of his body against mine, the racing of his heart, the way his hands cradled me like something precious.

"It's okay," I murmured, running my fingers through his hair, savoring the silky texture against my skin. "I hear you. Even when you don't speak, I hear you now."

He exhaled shakily against my neck, and I felt the wetness of tears—his or mine, I couldn't tell. Maybe both. His hands moved up my back in a caress so tender it made my heart ache, and I knew with absolute certainty that this man loved me more deeply than words—spoken or written—could ever express.

Chapter 16

Cash

Aiden's laugh vibrated throughme as he pressed against my side, the ancient springs of his grandmother's floral monstrosity of a sofa creaking beneath us. Pizza boxes littered the coffee table, and some movie about zombie cheerleaders flickered across the screen, casting blue-tinged shadows across his face. His body fit against mine like it had been designed for that purpose, the warmth of him seeping through my clothes, anchoring me in a way I still couldn't quite believe was real. One week since that moment in the parking lot, since I'd laid myself bare through a fucking social media post because my throat closed up whenever I tried to tell him how I felt. One week of falling asleep with his head on my chest, waking to his morning-breath kisses, learning the rhythm of his life. And still, part of me waited for the other shoe to drop.

"Oh my god, look at her face," Aiden snorted, pointing at the screen where a blood-spattered cheerleader shrieked in B-movieglory. "That's not fear, that's constipation." He tilted his head back, eyes crinkling with laughter as he glanced up at me. "Am I ruining the cinematic masterpiece for you?"

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