by Rowan Massey
When I got my first dog, she was an easygoing beagle mix who came with my first apartment, which was over the garage of an elderly couple’s house. They said I didn’t need to pay utilities as long as I took care of their dog as if she were mine. They were getting too old to take care of her. Her name was Bernice. She was white and brown with gray hair peppering her sagging face. It had been an emotionally daunting task because of my history, but I loved taking her out for walks, feeding her, letting her sleep in my bed. I was always vigilant about watching her behavior, her gait, the consistency of her stool, looking for problems, letting myself get anxious over nothing. But I’d desperately wanted the job as soon as they mentioned it. I’d needed it.
It was a few months into taking care of her that I’d had a sort of epiphany while playing tug with her. She always growled while I pulled the rope toy in all directions, but she was as docile as it got. I started pondering the idea that all dogs are disabled, horribly disadvantaged by their inability to lie and their reluctance to hold a grudge. How horrible to be like a child your entire life, unable to understand the cunning of adults, incapable of hiding what you’re thinking.
Zander seemed like that sometimes. He thought he was hiding the pains of his family history and mental illness, but I saw all of it. He couldn’t lie to me. Every little hesitance, every ripple of emotion, was easy to detect. I rarely said anything when he reacted strangely because I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, but sometimes I wanted to grab his face and force him to look me in the eye so I could tell him for the millionth time that he was beautiful and worthy. I wanted these facts to be understood; for it to be accepted as truth. He always seemed to glaze over, face turning to stone, when I said such things to him. He would say, “So are you,” or “You’re sweet,” but his expression was telling me, Yeah, right, or No, I’m not, or, heartbreakingly, Please stop.
We’d been spending almost every evening together at my place. Neither of us had money to go out often and he was a homebody like me anyway. I usually had reading to do, so in order to keep my attention, he’d started asking me to read to him. I’d never read to an adult and thought it was too awkward at first, but the way he relaxed against my shoulder with endearing predictability every night had turned it into a ritual that I craved. He didn’t care what I read. It wasn’t about entertainment.
Over the few months we’d spent together, he’d said offhand or distracted things like, “I guess Mom taught me how to drink wine at a young age.” or “I like staying here. Too much smoke at at Mom’s. And I never want to live in a car again. Fuck that.” One day he said, “You really told your daughter stories at bedtime when she was little? Mom just put me in my room and I slept when I couldn’t stay awake anymore.” I learned quickly not to ask too many questions. He tolerated gentle probing, but that didn’t mean he answered. When I outright asked him if he was neglected as a child, he froze up and wouldn’t look at me. Once I’d soothed him a little, he’d loosened up and said, “She covered the basics. It’s not big deal anymore. I’ve got you right now, and I’m over it.”
I’d kissed his temple, and we’d returned to the book in front of us, which was a true crime novel with the usual descriptions of extreme childhood abuse. It was hard for me to read such things, but he didn’t seem daunted by it. We skipped some of it because I couldn’t say those things out loud.
He didn’t always text me before coming over after his day at the florists—a job I’d helped him get. The place was owned by the wife of an editor friend of mine. I’d made a phone call before Zander’d gone over there for his interview, but I hadn’t told him that I knew the owners. At the time, I hadn’t been sure if he would find it embarrassing. I still wasn’t sure of his boundaries sometimes.
I was downstairs at my desk, engrossed in answering emails, trying to make sure books were being sent to the right addresses, when the doorbell rang. I hit the button on my phone to check the time. It was definitely him. I peeled myself away from the computer screen and jogged up the stairs to the door. Would he think I was moving the relationship along too quickly if I gave him a key? What if I just left it in a false rock for him?
I swung the door open and was greeted with the same warm smile that I’d had the pleasure of seeing almost every single day for weeks, months. He was holding a tote box full of packages of books that the mailman had left.
“You’re going to get soggy books again,” he said as he walked through the doorway. I craned my neck to look up at the sky and he was right, it was about to rain.
“Good thing I’ve got you,” I said, and followed him into the living room where I kissed him hello as soon as he put the box down.
Without being asked, he got the scissors from the kitchen and brought them to me where I’d situated myself with the packages to my right, a fresh trash bag between my legs, and space on the sofa for Zander to sit on my left. There were a lot of packages—about a dozen—and I opened each one, made conversational comments about the book, and handed it over to him. He took each book and the pub sheet that came with it, wrote the date it would be published along the top of the sheet, and put it in the book like a bookmark so I could easily see when the books were due for a write up by glancing at them. The books would be stacked on the coffee table, then placed by date in a specific shelf.
Since Zander had never been a reader before he met me, I was touched by the way he didn’t question that I’d structured my life around books. He’d simply wedged himself into my bookish routines. He’d never once asked how I could focus for so long. He’d never tried to tell me I was too obsessed. There were some people in my life who admired it, or wished they had that kind of dedication or passion in their own lives. Zander didn’t fit into that category either. He simply accepted it as if it were the most ordinary thing.
“What the heck?” I said.
There was a used mass market in with the packages. I picked it up and fanned the pages, looking for a note or some clue.
“Oh, that’s mine,” Zander said. “I found it at the thrift store. Maybe you could read it to me?”
I chuckled with mild surprise.
“What, you don’t want to read something without me?” I teased.
He smiled and knocked his shoulder against mine. “I never have before. Why start now?”
“That’s not true,” I laughed, then realized he might be serious, “is it?”
“Reading for class doesn’t count,” he said.
I placed it on the sofa beside me.
“Okay, we’ll read it next.”
He took it and placed it in the middle of the coffee table, probably thinking I was going to forget, but I wouldn’t. It was nice that he was asserting himself into our reading rituals.
We finished opening everything, letting Remmy shred one of the big envelopes and laughing at how excited he was about it.
“Jesus,” Zander said, “I love that dog.”
He got up and started shelving things as usual. I stayed where I was for a moment. His casual comments got me sometimes. The idea that he loved my dog the way I did gave my heart a small thrill.
I got up, grabbing the second half of the stack, and we jostled each other to slip each book in place. We had to rearrange things so that there wasn’t a gap in one shelf and books stacked on top of each other in the next. His handwriting had started to dominate all the written dates. I had a silly affection for his sloppy eights and awkward twos.
“I’m gonna go steal a snack,” he said, but I stopped him and spontaneously pulled him in for a hug. His arms wrapped around my back and he squeezed.
“I like your hugs a lot,” he said.
“I like yours a lot too,” I answered, and kissed his neck. “I got your cherry Pop Tarts.”
His chest shook with a quiet laugh.
“Why do you remember every little thing I say?” he asked. I could tell he was pleased.
“I have a good memory.”
We loosened our embrace and went to the kitchen h
olding hands. He went to the pantry and found the Pop Tarts.
“Did I tell you why I like these things?” he asked as he opened them, but didn’t wait for my answer. “When I was fourteen…no, how old was I?”
I got a pitcher of tea from the fridge while he thought about it. There were no clean glasses, so I grabbed two old, plastic tumblers.
“Yeah, I was fourteen. Mom was in a major funk and wouldn’t take me to the store. God, I was starving. I literally bullied some kid for his allowance because I was so fucking hungry, and then I wasted all of it in the snack machine at school.”
I was always a little surprised when he talked so freely about something like that. I was starting to understand it meant his medication was working for him that day, taking away the cagey intensity he’d had when I’d first met him and leaving a relaxed and content Zander where an anxious and conflicted version of him had been. He plopped down on a kitchen chair, legs splayed. I moved around the kitchen a little slowly, not wanting him to stop talking.
“So, there was this little girl next door and I got her to let me in her house. Her parents were home and everything, but I wanted to steal their food. I was super nervous. I just went in and grabbed the first thing I saw in the cabinets. It was this big box of cherry Pop Tarts like you get from one of those bulk food stores. Took that sucker home and ate it all in one day.”
He grinned as if he were still proud of himself for the mischief.
“Did you ever do stuff like that growing up?” he asked.
I wanted to keep his easy mood going, but I couldn’t think of what to say. He’d gone hungry as a child. That was new information.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” I said. I knew he wanted to act like it had been a silly childhood adventure, but I didn’t want to play that game, and reached out to touch his face. He took my hand in his and pressed my palm against his cheek. His cheerful expression waned.
“It’s not such a big deal anymore,” he said, trying to reassure me, but as usual, I wasn’t fooled. Going hungry wasn’t something anyone just got over. I knew he still suffered because of the neglect he’d experienced. I ran my fingers through his hair in a gesture of comfort.
“Used to hate my dad for all that,” he continued, his brows were lowering in that slightly confused expression he sometimes got. I stepped closer until I stood between his knees and he hugged my waist, face pressed against my stomach. “But now I kind of hate my mom. He couldn’t have known anything bad was going on, but I fucking begged my mom for days to just go buy some food. She had the money in the bank. She could have at least ordered pizza.”
“It sounds like she was very unwell. She probably wanted to but couldn’t make herself get up.”
He shrugged unconvincingly and pulled away a little to shove a bite of Pop Tart in his mouth.
“I’m just glad it’s over. Being with you, I don’t even have to live there anymore.” He caught himself, and with a look of apprehension, his chewing slowed down.
I remembered Lottie noticing all the signs of Zander’s presence in my life and asking if he was living with me. I’d been letting myself daydream about it ever since. We were nowhere near far along enough in our relationship yet, but there was nothing wrong with wishing for things.
“I like making you happy,” I told him. “I’m glad you’re comfortable here.”
We smiled affectionately at each other. It was the first time he’d been so open with me without getting too anxious or emotional about it.
“When we met, I told you I would tell you my story, but I haven’t,” he said.
“Tell me,” I coaxed, and squeezed his shoulder before turning to pour us our tea. I set the cups on the table and sat across from him.
“You know how my memories are fucked up, and the farther back in time I try to remember, the harder it is to figure out what’s real. Like, one time I thought I’d fallen out of a hot air balloon at some point, but when I’d asked my mom about it and she told me I was acting nuts. That was when I started figuring out something was wrong with me. So anyway, whenever I think about telling you something, I always wonder if it’s even reality. It freaks me out, so I just don’t tell you anything.”
“Baby…”
He cut me off with a hand wave.
“No, I’m just explaining,” he said. “If I ever tell you something that doesn’t make sense, you have to tell me. Can you just promise you’ll tell me if I’m contradicting myself, and not think…I don’t know. Just don’t think that I’m…you know, lying or crazy.”
“I wouldn’t jump to those kinds of conclusions. I promise.”
He had the kind of intensity he’d shown me off and on from day one. There was something dark and almost frightening in his stare. At the same time, with trademark contrasting emotion, the way he glanced down at my hand and reached out to squeeze my fingers showed vulnerability. Apparently satisfied that I was sincere, he took a breath and kept talking.
He started off telling me about strangers he’d hooked up with before he met me, wading into his stories at the shallow end, adjusting to how it felt to talk about himself. With a deep breath, he jumped to a description of how his mom was presently doing, which didn’t sound good at all. I murmured sympathetic things and squeezed his hand, coaxing him to keep going. His first story about his childhood was a disturbing tale about having a knife that he was allowed to play with as if it were a toy. In a way, that was the first clue I had that his mother hadn’t just been depressed and therefore neglectful, she had been a bad parent. He talked about it with a forced smile at first, trying to make it sound silly, but it wasn’t. His hand was still in mine when he told me about chasing down two kids and ending up cutting one of them. He didn’t try to make it sound like a joke at that point.
“But that’s when I knew I wasn’t some psychopath,” he said. “Can you get that? I threw Killy away. I felt terrible. I never did anything like that again.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, “I think I get it. And I don’t think you’re a psychopath. You were a kid. It sounds like you probably didn’t get much guidance.”
He snorted. “Guidance? Probably not like Lottie got, no.”
He sounded bitter but caught himself and gave me a look of apprehension. I wasn’t sure why.
“Keep going,” I said. “Tell me another story.”
He did. He told me why he never wanted to trust his friends and that he’d been wondering to himself of late if he’d avoided romantic relationships because he was ashamed of who he was. We sat on the hard kitchen chairs long after we were done drinking and eating, never letting go of each other’s hands. When our fingers started getting clammy and the seat was numbing my ass, I suggested we move to another room, but he seemed startled by the idea. I quickly told him to forget it, to keep talking, but he went quiet and hid his eyes by looking at the floor, shuffling his shoes.
“What did I say?” he asked, not looking at me. “Did I say something weird?”
“No, you’re doing great. I love this.” I did love it. It made me sad to think he might stop. “Keep going. Please?”
He nodded. After a moment, he started in on another story.
“The other day, I was remembering this dude that I’m pretty sure existed, but I hadn’t thought about it in a while. He was sort of my first, but not really. It was a couple years back. I don’t like socializing, but some girl pushed me into going to a barbecue. It was free food, so I said okay, whatever. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“No, I want to hear it,” I told him. “Keep going.”
He shrugged and kept talking.
“I have these nicknames for all the guys I’ve been with. You know, Mr. This and Mr. That. So this man I met, I called him Mr. Flash.”
He grinned, but rubbed at his eye in the way he sometimes did when he was sad. It was a hint of real emotion that was quickly buried under false bravado.
“He was fit and tall, so I was staring at him, but he was one of those �
�sad dad’ types, you know? Carrying a Hello Kitty diaper bag around and ignoring his wife. Classic. Anyway, he checked me out, I checked him out—you know how it goes. I don’t know what he said to me, but we went around to the side of the garage. He was nervous and kept saying, ‘This isn’t something I do’, but he was groping me and shit, you know. For some reason I thought it was funny, which pissed him off, and he got kind of aggressive, which I thought was hot because I’m nuts.” His chest shook a little with a laugh, so I smiled, but I already hated his pattern of hooking up with those types of men. Did he ever wish I was more exciting in bed? Well, I couldn’t be something I wasn’t.
He was gazing into space, remembering and picturing all this, and wryly smiling to himself, but his eyes widened. He met my eyes with a look of surprise, as if he hadn’t fully realized I was listening.
“You must think I’m gross,” he said.
“Why? Because he was married?”
