Page 116 of The Substitute
“Yes!” I shout, shoving harder at him this time. I need space and air that doesn’t smell like him. My heart is on this dirty pavement, and he’s standing on it. “There is nothing intrinsically appealing about me! I’m not funny or happy-go-lucky. I don’t exude sex like you do. I’m neurotic, needy, anxious, and only kept around while I’m useful or until I’m too much work for the payout or until people find someone better. The sooner you figure that out, the sooner you can find someone better suited.”
“Better suited?” Ambrose runs a hand through his hair. “What are you talking about? Have some value in yourself. You’re a good friend, a good person.” He grabs me again, hooking his thumbs under my jaw to tip my head up. “You bring plenty to the table. And don’t fucking let anyone tell you that you don’t.”
“I don’t.” I shake my head, anger and fear and trauma threatening to explode inside of me. “I need to be needed because it keeps me safe. If you don’t need me, you have no use for me, and I’m not safe.”
“You aren’t safe when you’re needed. It’s an illusion that’s feeding your anxiety more. People who need you in the way you are describing are abusing you. It’s not your job to carryeverything for everyone on your shoulders. It’s much better to be liked for who you are, not what you can do for people.”
But I don’t know who I am. How pathetic is that? I’m a bunch of insecurities pretending to be a person.
“But then I have nothing and no one. That hurts so much more. Shitty friends are better than nothing.”
“Bullshit. No friends is better than shitty friends. Shitty friends are a net negative. They drain you, hurt your mental health, and exhaust you emotionally.”
“After the summer I just had, you’re wrong.”
“He was a shitty friend! A real friend would not have lied to you and gone behind your back, then not checked in when you were clearly not okay.”
My chin trembles, and the words ache as they leave my throat. “If I have no one, who will sit with me on the bridge?”
Sadness and grief wash over Ambrose, and it’s a long second before he says anything. “Even if I hated you, I wouldn’t let you go to that bridge alone.”
“And when you’re not here? Or can’t be seen with me?”
“Savage.” The response is so fast, I think it takes him by surprise as well. “And Teddy, though he would probably be really confused about what was happening and get lost on twelve side quests. But he would go.”
My laugh is broken and cracked, but he’s right. Teddy would be a mess, but he would probably be distracting enough to keep me off the bridge. Ambrose smiles a little, too. This sucks, and it’s not where I thought this conversation would go, but here we are, I guess.
“Brosy!” a drunken voice yells from the doorway, probably one of the guys on the team, and Ambrose takes a big step back while a mask transforms his face into one I don’t really know. “You can get a blowy later. Come on—shots!”
My face heats, and I turn away to hide it. Shame weighs heavy on my shoulders, pulling me down like someone has ropes attached to me.This isn’t about me. Not me personally, but it hurts just the same.
“Gimmie a few minutes. I’m dealing with something,” Ambrose calls back, running his fingers through his hair.
A minuscule seed of hope starts to twist around my heart, and I hate myself for it. Hope is the worst emotion. It’s what keeps you coming back over and over and over, dragging you back to the water’s edge when you’ve finally escaped the undertow.
“Bro! You can’t pick a puck bunny over your boys! That’s blasphemy!”
Ambrose growls. “I’m not! Fuck off, Blondie! I’ll be there in a minute!” He takes me in again, and I can only imagine the mess I am right now. Red faced, covered in tears and snot.
Pathetic.
“Brosy!” more voices call from the doorway, and for a second, irritation or frustration flashes over his expression, and I don’t know who he was really talking to with his last sentence. Him or me?
“Do you think you can ever be out?” The words are quiet between us, partly because I’m afraid of the answer but also so no one overhears them.
He sighs, and his shoulders drop. “I don’t know.”
I nod like I understand. In theory, I do, but in actuality, I don’t. Homophobia is one of the big reasons I didn’t try to get better at sports. Even as a kid, I could tell it was fucked up. But Ambrose needs to take a real hard look at himself, too.
“It’s better to be liked for who you are, right? Not what you can do for people?”
THIRTY-SIX
TOBI
Ifucking hate being alone when I’m overthinking. Ambrose and I have barely spoken all week, and he’s gone again this weekend.
I think I need someone to talk to.
