Chapter 28 A safe truth
We’re seated at the table now, the tea is still too hot to drink properly, which doesn’t stop Michael from trying. He takes a careful sip, eyes narrowing a little in thought.
“What kind of tea is this?” he asks, glancing into the mug like the answer might be hiding at the bottom.
“Uh—” I hesitate, then clear my throat. “White peony with bergamot.”
He gives me a look. Not judgmental, more curious.....Slightly amused.
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “The store I go to has too many brands. Too many options. It’s overwhelming, so I decided I’d just... work my way through them.” I gesture vaguely with my mug. “Before this one, it was roasted oolong with orange peel.”
He nods slowly, like this makes perfect sense to him. “Methodical.”
Ember shifts at my feet, her tail flicking once before she settles again. I glance down at her, then at my watch without really meaning to.
“There’s still about two hours before seven,” I say, more to fill the space than anything else. “So, what are we supposed to do until then?”
Michael takes another bite of the PB&J I made for him, chews thoughtfully, then looks up at me. “What would you have done if I hadn’t been here?” He asks.
I look around the kitchen like the answer might be hiding somewhere.
“Nothing interesting,” I say finally. “Showered. Tried reading something. Probably would’ve taken a nap.”
I let the words sit there, safe and ordinary. Then, because I’m apparently incapable of stopping myself....I glance away, then back at him from under the rim of the mug and add, “If the nerves allowed it.”
It feels like I’ve just handed him a loose thread and invited him to tug. Admitting nerves feels like admitting weakness. Worse....want. I hate how exposed it makes me feel, like my insides are suddenly lit too brightly.
He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at me, head tilting slightly, eyes intent in that way that makes me feel seen instead of examined.
“Well,” he says, thoughtful, “we could still do all that.”
I blink.
“I’d feel terrible if I ruined your routine,” he continues, far too serious about it. “Absolutely haunted by the guilt.” Then, lighter. “Should we start with the shower or the nap? I’ve already done enough reading for today, so we can probably cross that one off.”
I shake my head before I can stop myself.
“What?” he asks, brows lifting. “I’m serious.”
I swallow and try not to be tempted. Try very hard not to picture it and fail immediately. My mind supplies images I didn’t ask for, warmth blooming low and nerves tangling with something far less manageable.
So I deflect.
“Why did your last relationship end?”
Michael looks surprised, just briefly, but he doesn’t recoil. If anything, he looks intrigued. He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms and settles in.
“Good idea,” he says. “I like this.”
“Like what?”
“A Q&A,” he replies. “It’s smart. We'll get to know each other a bit better before the date.”
“It’s not a date.”
He smiles. “Two people who are clearly attracted to each other, going out to eat on a Friday night, listening to live music....making prolonged eye contact?” He shrugs. “If that’s not a date, then we’ve officially altered the meaning of the word.”
I peer at him over my mug. “And what makes you think I’m interested in getting to know you better?”
“A number of reasons,” he says easily. “For one, your sudden fascination with my love life.”
I huff despite myself.
“And to answer your question,” he adds, tone shifting just enough to signal sincerity, “...it lasted two months. According to his assessment, I didn’t let him all the way in. Apparently, I have a talent for keeping emotional distance.” His mouth curves. “He said he felt like he was constantly auditioning for my attention.”
He pauses, then adds dryly, “Which I’m told is not a desirable trait.”
I let the words settle, trying to absorb them without immediately turning them over too much, without letting them land somewhere tender. The phrasing sticks, it's dry and self-aware in a way that feels deliberate. Like he’s already made peace with the accusation.
Before I can respond, he inhales and straightens slightly in his chair.
“Alright,” he says, tone shifting just enough to signal a turn. “My turn.”
I glance up, caught off guard.
“I’ll be fair,” he goes on. “Same question.” His eyes hold mine, curious but not prying. “Why did your last relationship end?”
I think back, and immediately feel a flicker of embarrassment. My last relationship is a generous term. The last guy I dated, dated being used very loosely, was closeted. Over two years ago now.
We met in a bookshop, which feels almost offensively cliché. I’d noticed him before I ever spoke to him. We kept running into each other between the same shelves, trading glances that lingered a second too long, small smiles, those polite little nods that pretend to be nothing. When he finally approached me, it was tentative....he asked about a book he was already holding.
It led to coffee.
I glance at Michael and feel my mouth curve before I can stop it. ‘I’m sensing a pattern’, I think faintly.
He notices immediately. His gaze sharpens, playful suspicion cutting through it. “Should I feel threatened, or is that smile just nostalgia acting up?”
I shake my head. “It’s not about him.”
“Oh?” He arches a brow, goes to ask something but I beat him to it.
“Anyway. He had....issues. Mostly with the whole ‘gay’ part of our very gay relationship.”
Michael tilts his head, eyes narrowed.
“He liked me,” I go on to say. “Just not enough to be seen liking me.”
“Ah,” Michael nods slowly. “So he liked you in theory.”
“He said he wasn’t ready.”
He smiles. “Let me guess....he said it like it was something noble. Probably sounded conflicted and apologetic.”
“Very,” I confirm. “Lots of sighing. Very sincere.” I then shake my head. “I definitely stayed longer than I should’ve.”
He looks at me then. “That’s not on you. Hope has a way of overstaying its welcome.”
I hold his gaze after that, longer than I mean to. Something in his expression stays open, like he isn’t rushing me past it or trying to soften it into something easier.
My mind drifts back anyway.
That relationship drained me in quiet increments. Like a slow leak I kept ignoring because I didn’t know how to stop it. The guy....Jason, never said outright that I was the problem. He didn’t have to. He carried his lack of acceptance like a weight between us, and somehow it always landed on me. As if my wanting him, my being comfortable with what we were, highlighted everything he wasn’t ready to face.
Near the end, I remember how small I felt. How I’d reach for him, not even for affection, just for contact, proof I wasn’t imagining us.....and he’d look at me with this tightness in his face. Not disgust at me, exactly. Disgust at himself. But it bled outward anyway, soaked into the space between us, until I started feeling wrong for needing anything at all. Like my existence was an accusation he hadn’t consented to.
That was the part that hollowed me out. The way I started apologizing without realizing it. For wanting. For staying. For being visible. So I ended it as gently as I could. Like handling something already broken.
Michael shifts slightly, then looks at me with intent. “Alright,” he says. “Your turn.”
I think about it. There are too many questions, all stacked on top of each other. And at the same time, none that feel small enough to ask without giving something away. I stall for a few seconds, trying to decide what kind of truth I’m willing to step into. Then finally, I ask....
“If you knew something good wouldn’t last very long, would you still let yourself want it?”