Page 85 of Catching Kyle
I stop scratching his back as the tightness in my chest shifts to my stomach, and I stare down at my coffee table. Then I get hot. Uncomfortably so. I think my fireplace and the candles are the culprits, but I’m also frozen in place. I couldn’t get up to extinguish any of the flames if I wanted to.
Michael puts his hands on my knee, sending a shot of warmth up my leg. Not the bad kind of warmth, though.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“You’re hurt that I wasn’t vulnerable with you,” I say.
“Yeah.” He frowns. “Yes,” he says, more firmly.
I imagine myself playing in the cold mud all day, dried blood caked against my arms after getting cut up defending the ball carrier, and then losing. Coming back into the locker room after a defeat and looking at myself in the mirror for the first time—dirtier and more haggard than I expected. Muscles worn, joints sore, skin chaffed. Tired, cold, dejected.
That’s how I feel right now.
Because I’ve heard it all before.
Every woman I’ve ever tried to date has told me something similar: I’m too closed off, there’s a wall between us, I hurt them with something I did or didn’t do. I’ve chalked this up to so many things in my lifetime: them being petty, me being cursed in some way, or that I was gay. The first reason I realized was just misogyny. The second one I eliminated when I came to accept who I truly was.
But the third? I’ve accepted I’m gay, but here Michael is, the perfect man, telling me the exact same thing. I can’t attribute this problem to women anymore, nor can I lump Michael in with the women. Because I see so plainly that I’m the only common denominator. So the second reason has to be true.
I am cursed.
Cursed with what? I don’t know. But with all the slander daddy threw at the queers, I can only think that my sexuality is at the root of it all. But that can’t be it, can it?
“Hey, talk to me,” Michael says. “You look upset.”
“How did you do all that?” I ask.
“What?” he asks, leaning back.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just—” I choke up, then curse at myself. Why can’t I do any of this without crying?
“I’m sick of feeling trapped inside my own head,” I say, tears just flowing. “It’s like my feelings storm inside me and try to break out through my tears or my heart or my stomach. I want to be like you. I want to spit it out like a goddamned A-plus essay. God, I wanna know myself like you do, Michael. Because everything you’re telling me is true. It always has been. I have a hard time opening up because, truth is, I have no goddamned clue how. As you can guess, I couldn’t talk to my goddamned daddy. And even with my mama, whoI knew would listen, I just didn’t know how to say. The truth would just get tangled on my tongue and then slip back down my throat like a goddamned leech.”
I take a big, shaky breath. Then I look at him. I expect him to look disgusted. Afraid.
But he’s focused on me, leaning in. Like he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.
“You promised when we got together that you would trust me,” I say.
“I do,” he says.
“And bless you for it,” I say, holding back a sob. “But what good is that if I can’t trust myself to be honest? I don’t know how, Michael. I don’t.”
We sit there in silence, but I can practically hear Michael thinking.
“Do you want to be?” he asks.
“What?”
He swallows. “Do you want to learn how to be honest?”
I almost scoff, but it comes out as a laugh. “Of course I do,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Why do you think I’m all worked up about it now?”
He grabs my hand and starts rubbing my knuckles. I watch as his thumb gently pulls my knuckle hair taut, then lets it go.
“Then you can,” he says, looking up at me.
“But how?” I say with a sniffle.
