Page 61 of Sleep

“Jump off cliffs.”

“Yes. Good jumps. Good cliffs.”

“This was a good cliff.”

“It was. And I have more cliffs to tackle tomorrow, so we need to turn off this light and sleep. Or rest, in your case. I’ll be right here. Just wake me if you need me. Talk to me. Don’t let things overwhelm you, okay? Just rest. Close your eyes, and I’ll just lie here and hold you.”

I didn’t understand why I suddenly felt overwhelmed. Why there was wetness in my eyes. Why my usual nighttime panic seemed lighter, and instead of spasming in fear, my body seemed to relax, lying here in their arms.

Rest. That I could do. Lie here and listen to them breathing. Warm skin against my face.

A few weeks ago, I would have given my right arm to have had something like this, and now I did, I wanted this to last. To go on.

I could suddenly see Christmas trees. I’d never had one. Never decorated anything in my life, but now I wanted to. I wanted to ride in their car, visit their parents, see this mythical place they called home, where they’d lived before they met me.

I wished I’d met them sooner. I wished I’d been braver. I wanted this. I would fight for this—to the death if I had to—even if it meant being honest about who I was. Out in the open.

I would have to dig deep and find all that bravery.

I didn’t remember anything after that, other than thinking that I’d taken my sleeping tablet hours ago and was still awake, so they obviously didn’t work.

Then I slept.

22. Mabel

“I’m going to be brave today,” I declared, standing by the kitchen counter, cutting up a watermelon. I loved melons. Sweet, colourful slices of juicy goodness.

Someone had once written a song comparing going down on a woman to eating melon. I’d almost gone off fruit completely after that.

I was queer. Super queer, but only attracted to men. I said that out loud as well.

“I know you are, Pickle,” he said, walking past me, placing my coffee on the side. Another perfect cup.

“The queerest people are not always the bravest, though. We talk about that in group. How the people with the brightest clothes and maddest hair who show their true selves on the outside? Sometimes they feel totally worn out on the inside, hiding everything behind loud colours.”

“Do you feel like that?” Trust him to ask the right questions.

“I do. I sometimes feel really frightened of the world around me. And again, I’m not what everyone expects. But if I try to tell people who I am, they stare at me like I’m a freak. It gets boring after a while. So yes, I hide behind the lip gloss and wigs and loud clothes. Because they show who I am, even if I can’t always find the right words.”

“If I were to describe you?” He pulled out one of the bar stools that were so cleverly hidden in the kitchen island that I tended to forget they were there. “I would say you’re the perfect mix of everything I find attractive. Curves and planes in all the right places, your low-cut tops that give a glimpse of…I don’t know. Beauty.”

“You should have been a pop star, writing lyrics like that.”

“I told you. Literature and poetry were my favourite subjects at school.”

“It shows.”

“You also present yourself really well. Confidence and beauty. Warmth. You care. You pull people into your space, and us poor minions become transfixed.”

“Then you drag me home and make me offers of living arrangements.” I had to bring that up because I still wasn’t sure of any of this, but I was coming back here tonight for more. More of him. More of…fuck.

“That offer is permanent, you know,” he said, reading my mind, clearly. “I really would love it if you’d stay. Move your things into the guest room, work from here, sleep with me. Just think about it.”

“Okay,” I said noncommittally. That was a solution I could work with. I wasn’t sure it was a sensible one—I’d been here a week, known him only for a few more—but God, I wanted it. I wanted all of this.

What the hell was I doing?

Being me, apparently.

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