Page 9 of Storm in a Teacup
I freeze, numbers fading from my head. My voice is pitched too high as I say, “Oh. Strange change of subject.”
“Is it?” I don’t answer, so she moves on. “Are you still mad at him?”
I turn away, focusing on anything but her. “I’m not mad. We’re just not speaking for reasons I wish not to divulge.” I say carefully, “I don’t want to talk about David.”
Her tongue clicks. This is far from the first time we have had this discussion, so it’s obvious she is beyond tired of me shutting it down. “Yeah, I know. I’m his friend, but I’m your friend too, Ben. I want you to be happy.”
“You’re not my friend,” I say, earning a scoff, so I clarify, “You’re my sister. Practically. And I love you, so I feel comfortable saying:butt outof my love life.”
She bites the corner of her mouth. “Fine. Fine! I’m done. I should get going anyway. What are you up to for the rest of the day?”
“Heading up to Laggan Wolftrax. It’s a nice day for once, so I figure this may be the last chance I have to get up there before Somewhere Special officially opens. I haven’t been mountainbiking since the summer.” I’m not an extreme mountain biker, but I do like to hit the trails every now and then. I used to work at the café at Laggan Wolftrax Centre, a park in Newtonmore, before we agreed to open the café here.
“That sounds horribly dangerous. Have fun.”
“Permission to hug?” I ask, holding my arms open. Rachel is not a fan of physical touch, but can be accepting of it depending on how close she is with someone or if she has warning.
“Permission granted.” She pulls me into a quick, tight hug before she pivots and leaves the café.
I’m not far behind her. I dressed in long, fitted pants and a windbreaker this morning in preparation for the chill on the trail. As I take a left, I notice the door beside my café slightly open. It leads to a flat above the antique shop that neighbors us. I often see it ajar and figure it doesn’t close all the way easily. I pull it shut, as I always do, keeping whoever is inside safe upstairs.
…
Before I get on the trail, I park my bike outside the café. I poke my head in to say hiya to my former boss, Angus, who is standing behind the counter.
His eyebrows lift when he sees me. “Ben, what the hell are you doing here?”
I scoff dramatically. “That counts as hello, does it? I’m here to ride the trails, figured it’d be rude not to stop by.”
“You just want me to set aside a banana muffin for you when you get back,” he accuses with narrowed eyes.
“You caught me,” I yield. “If you don’t mind. I can prepay.”
He waves me aside, already grabbing the muffin out of the case and wrapping it in paper. “I’ll save it for you. Today won’t be that busy, though. It’ll likely be here when you get back.”
I tilt my head seriously. “Better safe than sorry when it comesto baked goods.”
“They’re not the same without you, you know.”
“Are you still using my recipe?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’m sure they’re grand.”
I leave him at that, hopping on my bike and starting my ride. I travel up and down bumpy hills and trails until I reach my favorite spot: a cliff overlooking high peaks and waters. I pause, chest heaving, holding on to the handles of my bike as I balance and set my feet on the ground. I wheel closer to the ledge. This is a good place to come when I need to think. The only problem is, now I’m at a stage where there’s nothing I want to do less than think. Thinking is what got me into this mess.
Though, on the bright side, Rachel knows I’m bi, even if I didn’t specifically say the words. Her knowing is a small weight off my shoulders. I mean,Iknow it. I’ve been playing around with it. I just haven’t done the whole coming out bit yet.
Do I have to do that? I mean, I’m nearly thirty. I figured this out rather late, by some’s terms. I'm aware there’s no preset timeline for learning things about oneself, but I wish I had learnt this sooner. Do I have to make it a thing, or can I justbe? Like, there’s no way in hell I’ll do a grand announcement on social media, because no one who doesn’t know me well enough to be told in person cares. I should tell my family and friends, yeah? It’s a rite of passage.
I sigh. The reason I haven’t said anything yet is because when I had imagined sharing this tidbit, I was holding the hand of the man I loved, with him grinning at me while I said the words. Then all of our friends were going to be like, “Aha, we knew you guys were meant for each other.” And then we’d kiss and celebrate and—
My hand drags down my face. I am so sick of being sad. So sick of moping over David. But every time I get a moment to think, or someone or something reminds me of him, a wave of something akin to grief crashes over me, leaving me to thrash and struggle until I can heave myself up and away from that darkness. Which is sodramatic. Everyone always says I’m dramatic. They’re right. He’s not dead. The only reason our friendship died is because I killed it.
These thoughts are the reason I’ve been forcing myself to go to therapy for the past three months. Haven’t told anyone about that either. Not sure why I’m keeping these secrets from the ones I love. They’re not shameful. However, even the non-shameful secrets will find their way back to the utter embarrassment of my failed love confession.
I hear bike tires crunching the ground behind me, turning me around and pulling me out of my head. The person pauses and undoes their helmet.
