Page 23 of Perfectly Us
“Therapy?”
“Look, Alex.” Shiloh fidgets with one of the rubber bracelets on his wrist. That’s when I see he’s also wearing a red rubber band. He snaps it once against his skin. “It’s not something I go around telling people. It’s hard to talk about.”
“Okay. You don’t have to tell me.”
I understand the feeling all too well. There’s something I don’t like to talk about either, something everyone who knows me has heard about. Maybe it’s one reason I enjoy being around Shiloh so much. He didn’t go to school with me. He doesn’t ask hard questions or bring up tough shit.
Even Ruben does it, whether intentional or not. I see the sympathetic side glances when he thinks I’m not looking. How he cuts off midsentence when he’s going down memory lane and something slips. Things always get really quiet then.
That’s the worst kind of silence too.
“I had fun tonight, but maybe we shouldn’t hang out again.” Shiloh doesn’t look at me as his words linger in the air.
“Why?”
“We’re just too different,” he says. “And I’m not… I mean, I don’t know if… I’m not like you.”
“Like me?” A sudden tightness grips my heart. “You mean gay? Excuse the hell out of me, but I didn’t know a person’s sexuality determined their worth as a friend. My bad.”
Blue eyes flash to me. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Whatdidyou mean then, Shiloh? Because it sounds to me like you found out I like dick, and now you’re bein’ a jerk. Do I think you’re hot? Yeah. Am I gonna jump your bones and have my wicked way with you? No. I mean, not unless you want me to. But not right now, because right now I’m kinda ticked off.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.” I take a step back and pull my keys from my pocket. “Have a good night. Or life. Whatever.”
“Wait.” He grabs my arm and immediately withdraws his hand. As pissed as I am, his expression gives me pause. It’s the most life I’ve seen in his eyes since we met. But there’s something else too. Fear. But of what? “I’m sorry,” he repeats, his voice shaking. “I suck at this. I don’t care that you’re gay, Alex. You’re an incredible guy. Really. I just meant that I’m…”
“You’re what?” I press when seconds pass.
His chin trembles. “I don’t know.”
The couple from the arcade exits the theater, the girl giggling as she cuddles the alien plush. The guy throws his arm around her shoulders and guides her toward their car.
Shiloh’s fighting some internal war with himself. I can tell there’s more he wants to say, but the words die away before they even reach his lips.
“Did you mean it when you said we shouldn’t hang out again?”
“Not really,” he responds. “I guess I kinda freaked a little. I do that a lot.”
“Do what?”
“Self-sabotage. Push people away.”
“Why?”
He snaps the rubber band again. “It’s easier sometimes.”
“Easier than what?”
But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he unlocks his car and rests a hand on the hood, eyes on me, before hopping inside and shutting the door. The engine roars to life, and I watch as he backs out of the parking space and leaves the lot.
I think I know the answer though.
Pushing people away is easier than opening up to them and letting them see all the dark shit you keep bottled up inside.
Mom’s asleep on the couch when I get home. Some late-night sitcom is on TV, the sound of the fake audience laughing louder than the dialogue. I grab the throw blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over her before heading upstairs.
