Page 37 of Tell Me Lies: Manlove Edition

“No.” He glares as if I’m accusing him. “New Jersey has … very strict laws and I can’t...” He clears his throat. “I can’t pass the mental health exam.”

Hot damn! Common ground. “Oh, cool! What’s wrong with you?”

As soon as the words leave, I know they’re all wrong, but still they land and burn.

“What’s wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you? Asking a guy a thing like that?”

“I just told you,” I answer defensively. “Bipolar disorder.”

“Fuckin’ moron.” He swipes his thermos off the counter and picks up his keys.

“Forgive me, I thought spending the night in a guy’s literal dungeon—”

“It doesn’t.”

Keys and coffee in hand, he stands refusing to look at my face. Lips pressed so tight they disappear. Maybe bringing me to his house was his version of vulnerability. How did it backfire so spectacularly?

“Your sneakers are on the doormat and your phone is on the counter. Meet me in the car. Five minutes. Do not bring this up again.”

****

Neither of us has the courage or kindness to say something soft as he drives.

Galway City is desolate at this early hour. There must be days when he doesn’t see the sun.

“Listen, Chard, um…”

So sorry. Chard’s not here right now. Care to leave a message?

“I’d hoped this morning would go better.”

“It’s my fault.” Entirely. Because I’m a moron.

“Not really. I’m—I don’t know, a bastard at the best of times.”

Oh, shit. This is an apology. What do people say when I apologize? “I … it’s okay. Thanks. I shouldn’t pry.”

He snorts, agreeing. Then continues, “I don’t know anything about bipolar.”

We turn a corner and I recognize my safe space by the fluttering rainbow flags. About three blocks from East Quay.

“I’m conflicted here.”

Shit. That means breaking up.

We weren’t dating!

“On the one hand, I like, uh … engaging in a bout of wildly passionate, totally protected sex, once a week.”

I nod, holding the knot of fear in check, because don’t I want more? But not a lot more? Just what we’d almost had this morning.

“But on the other...” I’m on his blind side and he can’t look over. “I’m … I am aware … I don’t know—a friend of mine—a doctor friend of mine, talks about self-destructive tendencies. Like a fire in a person’s head. And the best you can do is find someone to help keep it a nice warm bonfire.”

I like that metaphor. But what the fuck is he trying to say?

“But there are other people who kind of throw … uh.” He had a word he wanted, and chose something different. “Gas on the fire.”

I frown. “I can manage my symptoms just fine.”

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