Serious Moonlight(64)

I thought of Joseph, standing guard by the hotel’s entrance. Maybe standing guard over Daniel, too . . . “That’s how you met each other?” I asked.

“Strange way to start a friendship, but yeah. Joseph kept in touch, checking up on me. And when he got a job at the hotel, he found out there was another opening and put in a good word.”

Once again I was stunned into silence while I digested everything he was telling me.

Chef Mike was hamming it up with customers on the other side of the counter, showing them the head of the big tuna that he’d just severed. I pretended to watch casually, but I couldn’t help wondering, after all that talk about them growing up together . . .

“Yeah, Mike knows too,” Daniel said in a low voice, reading my face. “And he’s totally cool about it. But for all the people who understand, there’s just as many who treat me differently. Some talk shit behind my back, saying I’m weak, or whatever. Some of my friends at school stepped back because they felt like they were barely holding themselves together, and trying to prop up someone else was only going to bring them down. And then there are the lookie-loos—the ones who are fascinated by scandal, but only from a distance.”

“The people at the Clue game,” I said.

“Exactly.” His smile was tight and humorless. “It’s just . . . always there for me, in one way or another. I’ve gone through every emotion—guilt, denial, regret, shame. Most of the time I just wish I could forget it ever happened and move the fuck on, but I’m always being reminded. And sometimes my mom is overprotective because she’s scared it will happen again, so there’s her to deal with. I know she’s just doing the best she can and that I probably hurt her the most, but she makes it worse than it needs to be. I can’t even lock my bedroom door because she’ll break it down to make sure I’m not trying to do it again. She’s gotten better lately, but occasionally she has a freak-out if she can’t reach me, like, immediately.”

It sounded a little like how my grandmother had treated me. I guess we sort of had that in common.

He sat back on his stool, arms crossed over his chest, and sighed. “This is probably a lot of information, huh?”

“It’s a little surprising.” A lot, actually, but I didn’t say that, because I didn’t want to make him feel awkward about having told me.

“I guess . . .” He hesitated and tried again. “I guess that I just wanted to get all of this out in the open. Am I freaking you out?”

“No,” I insisted. “I’m sorry. I’m . . . overwhelmed. Trying to process. But I’m glad you’re telling me.” Was that the right thing to say? “I don’t mean I’m glad. Grateful?”

Ugh. I sounded like an idiot. Why was this so hard?

“I get it,” he said. “It’s just that . . . I don’t want you to think that I’m struggling all the time, or anything. I’m doing everything I can to make sure I don’t slip into another black hole, and I’m definitely in a much better place now than I was two years ago. Tons better. You don’t have to tiptoe around my feelings.” He scratched the back of neck. Tugged on his ear. Then blew out a hard breath. “I’m . . . not good at talking about this. I don’t know. . . . I guess my biggest fear is that you’ll start looking at me differently—that you’ll start seeing depression instead of me. It’s not easy being in a relationship with a person who’s got this kind of dark baggage.”

I made a dismissive sound, but somewhere in the back of my mind, part of me was wondering if I could. Which was awful. And upsetting. Why would I even think that?

“Trust me. I know from experience. And I’m not just trying to protect you. The more attached I get to you, the worse it will be for me if you decide you can’t handle it.”

I turned my head to look at him. “What are you saying?”

“I’m giving you an out. If all of this scares you, and you don’t think you can handle it, I get it.”

“Daniel—”

He held up a hand. “Don’t answer now. Before you decide anything, maybe at least think about what I’ve told you, sleep on it, and see how you feel over the weekend. Okay?”

He looked at me, and I looked at him, searching his face. He was serious.

“If you find you can’t handle it and need to bail, just text me,” he said. “It’s easier that way. I can be professional at work, so don’t worry about that. I won’t hassle you.”

A pair of talkative customers walked into the restaurant and plopped down on the two stools next to mine, shattering our privacy. But it didn’t matter, because I was lost for words. My chest hurt, and my throat felt as if it were trying to choke me. Was he encouraging me to stay away? It sounded that way. I was confused and hurt, and that felt selfish, because I wasn’t the one who’d been sad enough to almost die by suicide.

We left the restaurant together, both of us quiet as we took a bus downtown to get to work. Once I got over the immediate shock of it, I wanted to hug him. Hold him. Touch his hand. Anything. I wanted to let him know that I was grateful he trusted me enough to tell me, but I didn’t know how to say it—especially not in a public space, surrounded by strangers. So I did nothing. Said nothing. I held myself together like some kind of walking, talking robot with a cold, mechanical heart. All the way back to the hotel and all through our shared shift, I tried not to think about it. Told myself it was no big deal. I fake smiled and fake nodded and faked my way through the night like a pro.