I offer to do the dishes, and mom acts like she’s completely shocked by this.
me: i do the dishes all the time.
mom looks seriously at tiny.
mom: really, he does.
then she bursts out laughing.
I am not really appreciating this, even though i’m aware there are many worse ways this could’ve played out.
tiny: i want to see your room!
this is not a hey!-my-zipper’s-getting-itchy! request. when tiny says he wants to see your room, it means he wants to see . . . your room.
mom: go ahead. i’ve got the dishes.
tiny: thanks, mrs. grayson.
mom: anne. call me anne.
tiny: thanks, anne!
me: yeah, thanks, anne.
tiny hits me on the shoulder. i think he means to do it lightly, but i feel like someone’s just driven a volkswagen into my arm.
I lead him to my room, and even manage a ta-da! when i open the door. he walks to the center of the room and takes it all in, smiling the whole time.
tiny: goldfish!
he goes right over to the bowl. i explain to him that if goldfish ever take over the world and decide to have a war crimes trial, i am going to be noosebait, because the mortality rate of my little goldfish bowl is much much higher than if they’d lived in the moat at some chinese restaurant.
tiny: what are their names?
oh, lord.
me: samson and delilah.
tiny: really?
me: she’s a total slut.
he leans over for a closer look at the fish food.
tiny: you feed them prescription drugs?
me: oh, no. those are mine.
It’s the only way i’ll remember to feed the fish and take my meds, if i keep them together. still, i’m thinking maybe i should’ve cleaned a little more. because of course tiny’s now blushing and not going to ask anything else, and while i don’t want to go into it, i also don’t want him to think i’m being treated for scabies or something.
me: it’s a depression thing.
tiny: oh, i feel depressed, too. sometimes.
we’re coming dangerously close to the conversations i’d have with maura, when she’d say she knew exactly what i was going through, and i’d have to explain that, no, she didn’t, because her sadness never went as deep as mine. i had no doubt that tiny thought he got depressed, but that was probably because he had nothing to compare it to. still, what could i say? that i didn’t just feel depressed - instead, it was like the depression was the core of me, of every part of me, from my mind to my bones? that if he got blue, i got black? that i hated those pills so much, because i knew how much i relied on them to live?
no, i couldn’t say any of this. because, when it all comes down to it, nobody wants to hear it. no matter how much they like you or love you, they don’t want to hear it.
tiny: which one’s samson and which one’s delilah? me: honestly? i forget.
tiny scans my bookshelf, runs his hand over my keyboard, spins the globe i got when i graduated fifth grade.
tiny: look! a bed!
for a second, i think he’s going to leap onto it, which would kill my bed frame for sure. but with an almost-shy grin, he sits gingerly on its edge.
tiny: comfy!
how have i ended up dating this sprinkled donut of a person? with a not-unfriendly sigh, i sit down next to him. the mattress is definitely canyoning his way.
but before the inevitable next step, my phone vibrates on my desk. i’m going to ignore it, but then it buzzes again and tiny tells me to get it.
I flip open the phone and read what’s there.
tiny: who’s it from?
me: just gideon. he wants to see how things are going.
tiny: gideon, huh?
there’s an unmistakable suspicion in tiny’s voice. i close the phone and head back to the bed.
me: you’re not jealous of gideon, are you?
tiny: what, that he’s cute and young and g*y and gets to see you every day? what’s there to be jealous of?
I kiss him.
me: you have nothing to be jealous of. we’re just friends.
something hits me then, and i start to laugh.
tiny: what?
me: there’s a boy in my bed!
It’s such a stupid, g*y thought. i feel like i have to carve ‘I HATE THE WORLD’ into my arm about a hundred times to make up for it.
the bed really isn’t big enough for the two of us. twice i end up on the floor. all our clothes stay on - but it’s almost like that doesn’t matter. because we’re all over each other. he’s big and strong, but i match him in the push and pull. soon we’re a complete hot mess.
when we’ve tired ourselves out, we just lie there. his heartbeat is huge.
we hear my mother turn on the tv. the detectives start talking. tiny runs his hand under my shirt.
tiny: where’s your dad?
I’m totally not ready for the question. i feel myself tense.
me: i don’t know.
tiny’s touch tries to soothe me. his voice tries to calm me.
tiny: it’s okay.
but i can’t take that. i sit up, knocking us right out of our dreamy breathing, making him shift away a little so he can see me clearly. the impulse in me is loud and clear: immediately, i can’t do this. not because of my father - i don’t really care that much about my father - but because of this whole process of knowing everything.
I argue with myself.
stop.
stay here.
talk.
tiny is waiting. tiny is looking at me. tiny is being kind, because he hasn’t realized yet who i am, what i am. i will never be kind back. the best i can do is give him reasons to give up.
tiny: tell me. what do you want to say? don’t ask me, i want to warn him. but then i’m talking.
me: look, tiny - i’m trying to be on my best behavior, but you have to understand - i’m always standing on the edge of something bad. and sometimes someone like you can make me look the other way, so that i don’t know how close i am to falling over. but i always end up turning my head. always. i always walk off that edge. and it’s shit i deal with every day, and it’s shit that’s not going away any time soon. it’s really nice to have you here, but do want to know something? do you really want me to be honest?
he should take this as the warning it is. but no. he nods.
me: it feels like a vacation. i don’t think you know what that’s like. which is good - you don’t want to. you have no idea how much i hate this. i hate the fact that i’m ruining the night right now, ruining everything -