Page 25 of Phishing for Love
“Not a chance.”
I keep quiet, watching him fight an internal war. He’s reluctant to disclose what just happened, but he must know this is a war he’s not going to win. “I have trypophobia,” he says at last.
“I have no idea what that is.”
“I can’t stand to look at closely packed holes or dots.”
I’m silent for a second. “Is that a thing?”
“It’s a thing.” The burn of humiliation is all over his skin. “Apparently, a lot of people experience this. Took me by surprise as well.”
“When did you find out you had this dot phobia?”
“Last year. Someone gave me a honeycomb and my skin started crawling.”
I think about it for a bit. I really want to try to understand this. “For people with this condition, what stuff would freak them out?”
From the look on his face, this is not a subject he cares to discuss, but he indulges me. “For most sufferers, it’s mainly visual triggers—fruit seeds, bubble wrap, hair follicles. But they’re not all my triggers.”
“Do you take, like, anxiety medication or go to therapy or something?”
He shakes his head. “My condition is mild. I usually try to avoid any triggers.”
I frown at him. “Then why didn’t you leave when I took out the cantaloupe?”
“I didn’t realize it would be a trigger.”
Just then Rick walks into the breakroom, whistling away. “Hello, you two.”
Aaron lowers his head. I realize instantly he doesn’t want Rick to scrutinize his face, which is a little less corpse-like, but still pale.
It dawns on me then that I have in my hands a golden opportunity to expose Aaron and offer him up for ridicule, since I suspect Rick will be merciless in his reaction. This might even the playing field somewhat if Aaron is the talk of the office.
But I remember that at the restaurant Aaron had an opportunity to say something to Nathan about me falling asleep in his training session, yet he didn’t take it.
And even if Aaron had said something, I can’t do this to him. I’m not that person. More importantly, I don’t want to be that person.
I look at Aaron, who lifts his head and holds my gaze for several heartbeats. In his face is an awareness of the power I hold over him. He waits silently to see what I’ll do.
Sighing, I step in front of Aaron so Rick can’t see his face.
“I don’t think you want to be in here, Rick,” I say.
Rick juts his chin at me. “I need to warm up my pie.”
“Okay, but someone threw up in here and I’m trying to clean it up.”
“Ah, man, that’s so gross.” His florid face twists in disgust and he hastily leaves the breakroom.
I turn back to Aaron. Quietly, he says, “Thank you.”
Something inside me softens. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
I sense that mixed in with his gratitude to me for shielding him is a slice of resentment too. Because now I know a weakness of his. And Aaron appears to be someone who doesn’t care to be vulnerable in front of others.
I have no idea what it’s like to live with this kind of involuntary horror toward something. I don’t want to mock what I can’t imagine, but, since I’m not entirely selfless and noble, I take a seat opposite him and give in to the impulse to needle him just a little.
