Page 36 of The First Kind of Love
I think, deep down, I knew that was the truth, but hearing it come from someone else has a different impact. And fuck, theway she says it pulls at my goddamn heartstrings. Like there’s years and years of suppressed relatability haunting every one of her words. If the roles were reversed, I’d tell her the exact same thing.
Her pupils swallow up the outer rings of her irises as her touch grows into something hungry—a bone-crushing grip, a nonvocal declaration that I’m hers and she’s mine. The speed of my pulse is the equivalent of a bullet train.
Shades of sorrow affix to her face, soul-deep, thicker than the sediment at the bottom of a tannin-colored swamp. “Have you ever thought that maybe you could be neurodivergent?” she questions.
“I don’t know. A part of me doesn’t want to put a label on anything because it makes it that much more real. Like it’s confirming what I know to be true.”
“And that is?”
A plaintive answer, forthright in delivery. “That I’m broken.”
For a split second, Shiloh looks…angry. At me? At the world?
“You’re not broken. And just because you’re not like everyone else doesn’tmakeyou broken.”
I never thought of it that way. I mean, I never had anyone tell me otherwise. I always assumed that everyone else saw what I saw, and that those who did so kept quiet to spare me from embarrassment.
“I think you’re the first girl who hasn’t been put off by me,” I admit quietly.
“I could never be put off by you.”
Usually, if a girl said something as seemingly unbelievable as that, I’d question her genuineness, but I don’t have to do that with Shiloh. She’s always honest with me. She wears her heart on her sleeve, and all I want to do is cup my hands around it and protect it so that maybe, one day, I’ll be worthy of holding it myself.
I don’t know how, but I finally get the courage to reach my thumb out and clean the tomato sauce from her skin. She freezes—as if we’ve never been in a compromising position before—so tentative to move in fear that I’llstoptouching her. I don’t want to imagine a world where that’s ever a possibility.
Her gaze combs over me in a way that kicks up cinders in my belly. Despite not wanting to break contact, I eventually wipe the ketchup off on my towel-clad hips, and the low-grade fever that rakes over me is paradoxical given my shirtlessness.
“Enough about me. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You mentioned living in a constant state of anxiety on the beach,” I explain with a shot voice, unsure if I’m trespassing on “Do Not Pass Go” territory. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, but I want to understand her. As best I can.
Instead of the high-voltage smile I’ve grown to anticipate, a frown bows down her lips, extirpating any evidence of the carefree girl I’ve seen in lingering flashes. “Oh, right. I guess…I guess managing the shop just sets off this chain reaction of worry. One second, I’m worrying about not making payroll, and the next, I’m worrying about what would happen if Deja Brew went out of business. It’s this never-ending spiral, you know? And there’s so much pressure to be perfect. For my parents, the customers, to succeed and meet my own expectations.”
“I’m not much of a perfectionist, but I can understand how draining that would be.”
I’m not just looking at a girl who’s given her whole life in the pursuit of living up to impossible standards, but a girl who knows nothing besides compromise. She shouldn’t even bethinkingabout work while she’s on vacation. That in itself tells me that her needs and desires usually come second to those around her. I wish I knew how much she was struggling. Maybe if I’d just grown a pair of balls and talked to her sooner, I could’ve helped.
Even though we’re almost shoulder to shoulder, I don’t rush to embrace her. Instead, I curl my fingernails into my palms. “I’m sorry you’ve had to carry all that pressure by yourself. If I’d known, I would’ve?—”
Suddenly, Shiloh’s small hands are holding my large ones, and instinctively, my nails let up the pressure against calloused flesh. Whenever she touches me, I’m putty in her hands—a docile beast purring in the lap of its savior. She’s the first person who’s never judged me for my flaws. She’s the first person to accept me despite the baggage hanging from my shoulders.
“It’s okay, Fulton. It’s just how my brain works. I know I’m hurting myself, but it’s like…it’s like I can’t stop because it’s all I know. I’m constantly striving for validation. I’ve become dependent on it at this point. I always need to do better so I can make my parents proud.”
It’s not okay.
I don’t want to make her feel worse—because I can tell this is a touchy subject—but there are so many things I wish I could say to her. Knowing that she’s trapped in this mentally abusive cycle kills me. How am I supposed to help her without overstepping any boundaries?
“If it’s any consolation, I think they’re proud of you,” I tell her, squeezing her palm gently.
“They say it all the time, but I…”
“You can’t accept it?”
“I don’t know why I can’t.”
Please let me be the one to tell you instead.
