Page 26 of Befriending the Bear
“Good taste.” Fraser pulled out a worn copy ofThe Left Hand of Darkness. “This was the first book that made me think differently about gender. About love being bigger than the boxes we put it in.”
“Marcus said the s-same thing.” The memory hurt less than I expected. “He read it to me when I had the f-flu once. Did all the voices.”
Fraser carefully replaced the book. “He sounds like he was good to you.”
“He was.” I moved to stand beside him, close enough to catch his cedar-and-coffee scent that was becoming dangerously familiar. “He made me l-laugh. Even when words were h-hard, he made everything feel possible.”
“That’s a gift. Being seen like that.”
Something in his tone made me look at him more closely. “Your ex didn’t…?”
“David was a good man. But he wanted me to be someone specific—the brave firefighter, the guy who had it all together, someone who was out and proud. When I couldn’t be that person for him…” He shrugged, but I could see the old hurt there. “He deserved more.”
“You weren’t ready.”
“No, but I can’t fault him for running out of patience.”
“M-maybe he wasn’t the right person. The right p-p-person would have waited.”
Fraser turned to face me fully, and we were standing closer than I’d realized. “Like Marcus waited for you?”
The question hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I wasn’t ready to examine. Yes, Marcus had waited. He’d learned my rhythms, had made space for my silences, had never once made me feel like my stutter was something to overcome rather than simply part of who I was.
“He d-didn’t see it as waiting. He saw m-me.”
“Lucky man,” Fraser said softly, and something in his voice made my heart skip.
I stepped back, needing distance, needing air. “It’s g-getting late. Your leg…”
“Right.” He didn’t call me on the obvious deflection. “I should go.”
We made our way to the front door. Fraser paused on the porch, silhouetted by the streetlight.
“Same time tomorrow? For the festival?”
“Y-yes.” The word came out too quick, too eager, but his smile made it worth the embarrassment.
“Good. Maybe tomorrow you’ll actually let me help with the heavy lifting.”
“M-maybe tomorrow you’ll actually bring your c-cane from the start.”
His laugh was rich and warm in the cool night air. “Fair point. Goodnight, Calloway.”
“Goodnight.”
I watched him make his way down the path, staring at him as long as I could. Only when he turned the corner did I close the door and lean against it, heart racing like I’d run a marathon.
What was I doing? This thing with Fraser—friendship, whatever it was—felt too easy and too hard all at once. Every moment with him chipped away at the walls I’d built, and I couldn’t decide if that terrified or thrilled me.
In the kitchen, our soup bowls still sat on the table. I washed them slowly, trying to make sense of the evening. We’d shared stories, pain, understanding. He’d stood in my library and understood why I organized books by feeling. He’d held Marcus’s favorite novel with careful hands and hadn’t made it weird or competitive.
My phone buzzed.
Made it home. Thanks again for dinner. And for today. And for trusting me with your story.
I stared at the message, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. There were so many things I wanted to say. That his presence had made the festival bearable, that his stories made me forget to be self-conscious, that I was starting to look forward to things again, which terrified me.
Thank you for listening. Sleep well.
