If This Gets Out(101)

It’s only Mom and me at home right now; Dad’s at work, and Mom’s studio doesn’t open for class until midafternoon. A puffing sound down the hall tells me where she is, and I follow the sound of her heavy breathing to our in-home gym.

It’s a sun-drenched room with floor-to-ceiling windows, so we can work out inside while imagining we’re out in nature, I guess. Mom’s on the treadmill, with her headphones in, staring at herself intensely in the floor-length mirror in front of her. She catches sight of me in the mirror as I lean against the doorway, and she slows to a stop. “Hey,” she says. Then, after studying my stricken face, “You okay?”

I know if I tell her what happened, she’ll take any side but mine. She’ll lecture me on being selfish, and immature, and I’ll be equal parts furious at her for the implication and terrified that she’s right, so I’ll go on the defensive. And we’ll scream at each other until my sadness turns into rage.

But if I don’t tell her, I can pretend I’m a little kid again, back when my little concerns were worth her comfort instead of her scorn. When I’d scraped a knee, or gotten into an argument on the playground, or knocked over a glass of water, and she’d stop whatever she was doing to wrap me into a hug until everything was okay again.

So, when she holds out her arms to me, I let myself forget that more often than not she’s the one who makes me feel like nothing’s okay. I ignore the fact that she’s mid-workout, and covered in sweat. I just go to her, and she pulls me into an embrace, and whispers, Sweetie, what happened? Talk to me, and for a second I pretend that I can.

But I don’t say a word.





TWENTY-SIX





ZACH


The call ends, and I can’t move.

His words slice me apart. They end me.

“I don’t think I can … do this anymore.”

I know he said other things, but that was by far the loudest. It’s practically screaming in my mind, over and over again.

From his voice, it sounds as if he’s already given up on our relationship, already decided that this isn’t something that I can give him. That means what comes next is just a gradual descent. This means, soon, he’s going to break up with me, all because I don’t know what I want.

I sit still, starting at the blank screen of my computer, my eyes filling with tears.

That really just happened.

After what happened with Dad, I’ve known that if someone opens the door to leave, it’s only a matter of time before they walk out.

So maybe Ruben didn’t say he was going to break up with me over this, at least not now, but he opened the door.

I go into the bathroom, lock myself in, and pull my shirt over my head. Every movement feels slow and laborious, like it’s costing more energy than I have. What I need is a shower. To take a second to myself, to wash everything away and reset.

I turn the taps on and step inside. I bow my head and let the water run down my face, messing up my perfect Zach Knight tousle. Good riddance. I don’t even want my hair to be this long. I never have.

Oh boy, maybe Ruben does have a point.

I thought I was doing the right thing, trying my best to be a team player, but maybe I’ve gone too far. Maybe I’ve lost myself, and now it’s costing me.

Things with Ruben were wonderful, so wonderful. Easily more perfect than I’d ever dared to let myself dream of, especially after what happened between my parents. He’s fiery and brings out the best in me and also has an incredibly caring side and more drive than I’ve ever seen in anyone. He’s inspired me so much, and I never told him. I also never told him having him as a boyfriend makes me feel like the luckiest guy on the planet.

Instead, I let him down.

I tilt my head back, so it’s under the water. This is all too familiar. Hannah suggested we break up because we weren’t “connecting” and she encouraged me to do some soul-searching. I thought I had, but I guess not, because I’m right here, yet again.

The emotions surge up, and suddenly, I’m crying.

It’s an ugly, hacking affair, one I try my best to keep quiet, but it doesn’t really work. I press my hand to my face, trying to hold it back, or at least to muffle it enough that Mom doesn’t hear me. The last thing I want to do is to try to explain this to her, or to anyone, ever. This is too personal, it cuts too deep, especially because it’s my fault. If I could just be different, be stronger, and more assertive, then I wouldn’t be in this situation.

Once the worst of the emotion has passed, simmering down to just a major, energy-sapping depression, I turn the taps off, and step out. The steam has fogged up the mirror completely. Cool, I don’t even want to look at myself right now. I wrap a towel around my waist, and plod back to my bedroom. I slam my computer shut, as if it’s to blame, then get dressed in the softest clothes I can find before slumping down onto my bed. I don’t have enough energy to even get under the covers. It’s mental exhaustion. All I can do is wallow. Anything else is too much effort.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Just him saying that, hearing the resignation in his voice, makes my heart ache so badly.

I wish I knew how to get people to stick with me.

I stay in my room for hours, undisturbed, until a knock finally sounds on my door.