Page 29 of Tell Me Again

She glances up at me, smiling, and her hand drifts a bit lower, down from my chest to my stomach. Then she stretches up and kisses my cheek before turning back to the movie.

She’s beautiful. She is. Beautiful and amazing and one of the best people I know. One of the best friends I’ve ever had. And—god, what am I doing? My chest tightens, and I feel slightly nauseous.

How can I still lie to her? How am I still lying to her, still refusing to tell her the truth, still hiding myself from her?

I know the answer. It’s because I’m a coward. Because it’s a scary truth and I’m a coward. That’s how.

But, god, it’s not really just all about me, is it? I’m selfish, too. A selfish coward who doesn’t deserve all that she’s given me.

I close my eyes as a ramble of words begins to form in my head.

Hey, Bren, uh, so there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. And I wanna start by saying I love you. Because I do. You’re kind and beautiful and smart, and I love you so much. But, well, um, it’s sort of a different kind of love. Like... you’re my best friend. Like... I love you, but I’m not in love with you.

Then my thoughts quickly derail into curse words I rarely think and even more rarely use. And a wave of something—nausea maybe—hits me hard. It’s going to hurt her so much. Dammit. I hate the thought of anything hurting her. And this is even worse because this one is all me. It’s all my fault.

Yeah, I can blame it on my dad, sure. Because he’s the reason everything ended up how it did. His anger and screaming and threats—all reasons I’ve shoved that part of myself deep down, promised myself I’d never, ever come out, told myself and Brenna and Coop all those lies. But in the end, it’s been my decision to continue this way.

I mean, I’ve had years to make a change. Years to break free from all his shit.

And yet . . .

“Hey, are you okay?” Brenna’s hand travels back up to my chest, and she presses into me gently as she shifts in my arms. “You just got like really tense.”

Shit, I did. I immediately loosen my arm from around her shoulders and shake my head.

“Yeah, sorry, I was just—”

“—somewhere else,” she says. And it’s not a question or an accusation or anything. Just a statement.

“Yeah, um, sorry,” I apologize again, and I close my eyes and rest my head on top of hers. She’s warm and comfortable, and she makes me feel safe.

And I’m not going to have this anymore when I tell her the truth. And dammit, that’s just really, really scary.

“Josh?”

I feel her push away from me slightly, and I open my eyes to look at her again. There’s something in her expression now that’s almost a little fearful, and I just shake my head and reach up to cover her hand with mine on my chest. Which is when I realize I’m shaking. Like, a lot.

I’m shaking a lot.

And when I close my eyes, this time I see him—my dad. He’s angry and cussing me out after he’s come back in from chasing Coop out of the house. His face is red, and his eyes are wide. And he’s still holding a baseball bat in his hand, waving it around.

He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t lay a hand on me. But I’m terrified all the same. I cower back into the corner and lie to him. Deny who I am. Deny that I have feelings for my best friend. Deny that the kiss was my idea and that I liked it.

“Hey, Josh, sweetie, you’re okay. What’s—what’s going on?”

It hurts. My heart hurts, and now my head hurts too. But she’s still here—for now—and she’s offering herself and a hug, and I just can’t resist it. She straddles my thighs and leans into me, and I wrap my arms around her and pull her closer and lower my head to her shoulder.

“S-sorry, Bren. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” I say. Over and over. I’m probably crying now too, but I’m not even sure, really.

She’s too amazing. She just holds me, strokes my back and my hair, and kisses my forehead and cheeks. And she says quiet words that are comforting and at the same time make me feel even worse. Because every few sentences are punctuated with some form of “I love you.”

“I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you. I’m so sorry. I’m...”

“Shh, it’s okay,” she murmurs again, and her arms tighten around me.

All I can think is how it’s not okay. This isn’t okay. I’m not okay. But I let her continue to hold me and continue to comfort me until all those feelings and memories and all the fear are no longer suffocating me.

It’s probably several minutes until I’ve stopped shaking. Yet she’s still holding me and stroking my cheek, and when I open my eyes to look up at her, her expression is kind and concerned.

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