by Witt, L. A.
We walked out through the front door. The bell seemed louder than usual. Almost like an obnoxious cricket filling in the background to let us know just how quiet we were being.
As the door banged shut behind us, we started up the sidewalk.
“So.” I cleared my throat. “Where do you want to go?”
He looked around like the streets and buildings might offer an answer. When they apparently didn’t, he shrugged. “I don’t know. You?”
“Have you eaten?”
For some reason, it took him several long seconds before he quietly said, “Not since lunch.”
We kept walking even though we didn’t have a destination in mind. I tried to think of where to go and what to do, but all I could think of was him. His down-turned eyes and his tense posture made my blood run cold.
I halted. It took him two steps to realize it, but then he stopped abruptly and turned around, shaking himself as if he realized how oblivious he’d been.
I studied him. “What’s wrong?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re acting kind of weird.” A queasy feeling started burning in my stomach. “Is everything okay?”
He met my eyes. Then stared at the pavement and sighed.
No. No, everything is not okay.
Oh crap. I’ve seen that look on other people before.
My heart sank lower and lower. Everything was definitely not okay.
“Brennan?” I prodded gently. “Talk to me.”
He started to take a breath, and I had to literally bite my tongue to keep from saying, No, no, never mind—don’t say what you’re going to say. Please.
“Listen, um . . .” He gulped. “There isn’t really an easy way to say this.”
No . . .
“You’re a great guy, but this . . .” He paused, looking anywhere but at me for a moment. Finally, he met my gaze. “This isn’t who I am.”
My throat tightened. “What do you mean?”
“Dating a man? Being asexual?” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m . . . I’m straight. I always have been. I guess, I don’t know, I needed to be someone else for a little while because Aimee fucked up my head so much. But I’m getting over her now. And I need . . . I need to get back to normal.”
I couldn’t even put my finger on the worst part of his statement. Every word was like its own poisonous little dagger.
“Normal?” I barely got enough breath behind the word to say it out loud. “I . . .” I didn’t know what to say.
Brennan wouldn’t look me in the eye. “I’m sorry. I think I tried to jump into this too quick. I mean, one day, I’m with Aimee. The next, she cheated on me. And then I’m asexual and dating a man and—” He exhaled hard. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. But I need some time to figure out what the hell I am.”
“We can take things slower. We—”
“No.” He shook his head, and though neither of us moved, the space between us seemed to be physically widening. “I need . . . I need to stop. I can’t do this.”
“Brennan . . .” Two syllables, and I ran out of air. What could I say? I knew all too well how hard it was to rethink your sexual identity. Who was I to tell him what he was or wasn’t? Or insist that he’d obviously figured it out?
Sighing, he scratched the back of his neck and kept his gaze fixed on the pavement. “I’m really sorry. I guess I just got so into the idea of being asexual, I jumped in with both feet and never looked back.”
“Until now.”
“Until now.” He nodded. “I mean, suddenly we were spending all our time together, and being with you was a lot more fun than pining over her.”
Gee, thanks.
“So, it was just a way to distract yourself?” My voice sounded as hollow as I felt.
“Not . . .” He chewed his lip. “Not to distract me. But it was like, what we were doing, and calling myself asexual—it was so different from what I’d been doing with her. And what I did with her wound up hurting me, so I wanted something totally different and . . .” He waved a hand. “I needed to be asexual because that took all the pressure off me. It meant she was wrong about me being a dud at sex. And I think I got in over my head.”
Well that part makes two of us, doesn’t it?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I need to go back to the way I was before.”
“Back to normal.”
He winced, but only slightly. “Listen, you really are a great—”
“Don’t.” The word came out as more of a growl than I’d intended, but I didn’t apologize for it. “If you want out, then go. You’ve said your piece. I’m not stopping you.”
He looked in my eyes. “I didn’t do this to hurt you.”
“Then we’ll chalk it up to unintended consequences, won’t we?”
Brennan flinched, lowering his gaze.
I shifted my weight, thankful for this numb outer shell that was keeping all my emotions contained. They’d come barreling through eventually. With any luck, it wouldn’t be right here in front of Brennan.
I cleared my throat. “So, I guess that’s it?”
“Yeah.” He looked at me through his lashes. “I guess, um, I should go.”
Please do.
But I just nodded.
We locked eyes for a painfully long moment. Then he muttered something in the neighborhood of good-bye, and turned to go.
Not five steps away from me, he put the board on the ground, stepped on it, and pushed off.
My chest tightened. Rationally, I knew this was just his habit. The board was like an extension of his own feet, and whenever he wasn’t walking with someone, he was skating.
But I couldn’t help feeling like it was a means to put more distance between us. To get away from this conversation—from me—faster.
At the corner, he turned. He didn’t look back.
And just like that, Brennan was gone.
Chapter 23
Brennan
The worst part was over. I’d let him down as gently as I could, and gotten the hell out of there as fast as I could, and now . . .
Now I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. The whole day had revolved around getting through my shift and working up the courage to break things off with Zafir.
Work? Check.
Breakup? Check.
So . . . what was I supposed to do now?
And, as I skated down the street, I couldn’t help wondering when I was supposed to start feeling better.
It’s not going to happen overnight. And it’s only been like two minutes.
Yeah. Probably wasn’t going to crash into someone to distract me from Zafir like I’d stumbled across him after Aimee. That lightning probably only struck once. And that was probably a good thing.
But what was I supposed to do now?
Skate. I needed to go skate. The guys and I were going up to Vancouver for a competition next month, and there would be potential sponsors there. This was a bring-your-A-game event.
To the park, then.
I cruised down the sidewalk, skating a lot faster than I usually did out here. Bluewater Bay’s tolerance for skaters wasn’t bad, but they didn’t like us flying through town. Hopefully they’d cut me some slack this one time.
At the shop, I grabbed my helmet and pads. Then I headed over to the park and tried not to think about why Zafir and Tariq wouldn’t be there tonight. And about this ache in my chest that hadn’t gotten better since I’d skated away from Zafir.
It had to be done. It wasn’t easy, but it was right. Right? Right.
Right?
Fuck.
I shook myself and focused. Pads on. Helmet on. A-game on.
The sound of wheels sliding across pavement, landing on pavement, skidding on pavement—that usually got my blood pumping.
Tonight it just made me . . . tired? That didn’t seem right.
Oh stop it. You’re pathetic. Skate, motherfucker.
So I skated.
As hard as I could. As fast as I could. Until I could barely put weight on my left ankle when I stopped. Until my knee was screaming.
I was about to drop my board and hit the half-pipe one last time, but Sven grabbed my shoulder.
“Whoa, dude,” he said. “What the hell are you doing? You can barely walk.”
“I’m good.” Why was my throat this tight? “Just need to—”
“You need to take it easy.” He didn’t let me go. “You can’t afford to fuck yourself up right now.”
Too late.
What is wrong with me?
Sven squeezed my shoulder. “Why don’t you take a break for a few?” He nudged me toward the picnic tables. “You look like you could stand to get off your feet.”
I exhaled. Then nodded and stepped back from the edge of the pipe. “Okay.”
At the picnic table, I leaned forward and covered my face with both hands. I was tired. That was all it was. I’d just skated really hard, and I was tired. My muscles were aching, some of them even quivering, so clearly this was all fatigue. Not because I’d just broken up with—
Stop. Stop doing this to yourself.
Just stop.
I squeezed my eyes shut and took a few long, deep breaths. All around me, there were people chatting, laughing, and shit-talking in between skateboards hitting pavement. I was used to that background noise here. I even recognized most of the voices.
And when a particular feminine voice cut through the noise, my stomach lurched.
Damn it. Aimee was here. And of course, where Aimee was, so was Billy. Just what I needed.
I wasn’t sure why I tortured myself, but I lowered my hands and lifted my head, turning toward the ramp where the sound had come from.
There she was. There he was.
And they were fighting. Lovely.
The park was crowded tonight, and loud, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Didn’t really need to, though. Her arms were folded across her chest. She scowled at him, her lip curling whenever she lashed out at him.
And he really didn’t seem to care. He wasn’t taking her seriously, that was for sure. Whenever she’d snap, he’d laugh and make an exaggerated defensive gesture—putting his hands way up, taking a huge, theatrical step back.
My chest tightened. When Aimee and I had been together, I would never have let someone talk to her like that. Not that I’d have had to step in—she wouldn’t have stood for it. But with Billy . . .
I shook my head and looked away. I didn’t get what she saw in him. Where exactly didn’t I measure up compared to him? Did it really go back to the sex? Because that was the only thing she’d ever offered as a reason to leave me for him, and it was the only thing I’d ever seen them doing besides fighting. Was he that good?
As I mulled it over, another thought crossed my mind: if she broke up with him right here, right now, would I take her back? Because if I thought about it, she and I had done a lot of sniping over the last year. It was better than the screaming matches I’d had with the girl before her, though, so maybe that was why it hadn’t bothered me at the time.
The thought of going back to that exhausted me. I much preferred chilling with someone, shooting the breeze, laughing about stupid things.
Like I did with Zafir.
A lump rose in my throat, but I tamped it down.
That whole thing was too raw to think about. I needed some time to let it all settle in my head. Then I could be objective. Or something.
It hurt because it always hurt to end a relationship. That didn’t mean it was a mistake. Sure, I’d enjoyed being with Zafir. I hadn’t spent that time walking on eggshells, or trying to second-guess his mood and know what he wanted from me. It didn’t really seem like he’d wanted much from me. It seemed like he was perfectly happy with my company.
Just like I was perfectly happy with his.
I shook myself and banished those thoughts. Scanning the park, I found Aimee again.
They’d stopped fighting, and were now standing side by side next to the small half-pipe, watching some younger skaters. When he put his arm around her, she didn’t pull away. She didn’t lean into him, so he wasn’t completely out of the doghouse, but she let him slide his hand down over her butt.
Way to be respectful, jackass.
My heart stopped.
That was what I wanted? Which part of that was the “normal” I needed to get back to? Did I really take relationship advice from a woman who was still hanging on the arm of a man who laughed at her when she was mad? Someone who’d recorded her during sex and thought it was funny to play it back for other people?
Granted, she’d been right about people making impulsive, drastic changes during breakups or when they were grieving. They needed time to regroup and think and sort through things. Jumping into something else was a good distraction, but didn’t do much for that whole regrouping and thinking thing.
But was that what I had done? Did it count as impulsive if it was making a change for the better? If she dumped Billy’s dumb ass tonight, and tomorrow she made a decision not to date men who recorded her having sex, did that count?
And if I was the kind of person who had no desire for sex, and wanted to be with someone who didn’t push me for sex, then was it really that impulsive for me to start calling myself asexual? Just because my relationship with her hadn’t been cold in the grave, was it wrong to realize I was asexual and connect with a man? Did the timing automatically make it wrong?
Of course it had happened right after my split with Aimee. That was when I’d had a reason to go looking for answers about my shitty sex life, and that was when I’d stumbled across those answers.
And stumbled across Zafir.
Who had the answers.
Who had that snarky sense of humor.
Who had that smile.
And . . . Oh shit.
No, I wasn’t impulsive when I’d started calling myself asexual or when I’d started dating Zafir. I was an impulsive idiot when I listened to my ex-girlfriend. When I took advice from the woman who thought Billy fucking Fallbrook was a decent enough human being to date, and having sex with him in our bed was any way to let me know we had problems.
When I somehow got it into my head that I should walk away from Zafir and go back to a normal that had never felt right in the first place.
Oh God. Oh my God.
In what universe did breaking up with Zafir make any sense?
Lately, the highlight of my day had always revolved around Zafir. Finding a reason to go into Red Hot just to see him. Ordering pizza for the guys just so he’d be the one to deliver it. Spending a day off with him and Tariq. Showing Tariq how to skateboard while his dad watched, trusting me despite the fact that I’d let the kid get hurt the first time.
All of that was gone. One conversation, and it was gone.
And sitting here now, watching Aimee with Billy, simultaneously replaying the last conversation I’d had with her and the last one with Zafir . . . I realized way, way too late how badly I’d fucked up and how much I’d lost.
She deserved much better than Billy, and I hoped she’d wise up to that soon. But since she hadn’t wised up to it yet, and she’d admittedly fucked up by cheating on me . . . why was I taking any of her relationship advice to heart? She had about as much credibility in that department as I did.
Though I probably had less. A lot less.
Because for all her mistakes, she wasn’t the idiot who’d cut Zafir loose.
I swore I could feel my heart shriveling up behind my rib cage. I’d had the sweetest, funniest, most amazing person right there at my fingertips, and what did I do? Left him with tears in his eyes and walked away as if that made any kind of goddamn sense.
Oh God. What did I do?
Chapter 24
Zafir
After Brennan left, I’d gone back to my car, but I didn’t go home right away. I drove around for a while. Went down to the waterfront to stare blankly out at the ocean and Cana
da and the occasional seabird.
It wasn’t helping. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected to accomplish—maybe find some answers or feel better—but nothing was happening. Brennan had still dumped me. I still felt like shit. I even had half a mind to call in to Old Country and see if Pete needed another driver tonight. I was already miserable, so why not add to it and make some money while I was at it?
Eventually, I headed home, and I made it there on autopilot. As I pulled into the parking lot, I realized this was about the time I’d expected to be back anyway. Go figure. I probably should’ve just come home when I knew my evening was shot. At least then I wouldn’t have had to pay Kelly for the two hours I spent burning gas I also couldn’t afford. Staring at the ceiling, the wall, the TV—it would’ve been just as ineffective as the road or the water.
I parked. Went inside. Paid Kelly. Still on autopilot.
Then she left.
Standing there alone, I cringed. Now for the hard part.
Did he have to know now? Maybe it could wait until tomorrow. Let the poor kid sleep.
Except he was too perceptive. One look at me and he’d know something was wrong. Either I’d tell him now, or he’d spend the whole night wondering what I was keeping from him.
Outside his bedroom, I took a deep breath, then tapped my knuckle on the door. “Tariq? You ready for bed?”
“Yeah.”
I pushed open the door. No surprise—he was sitting in bed in his pajamas with a book propped up on his knees. A novel, too. At this rate, he was going to be reading War and Peace or something by the time school was out.
“Time to go to sleep,” I said.
He looked up at me with puppy-dog eyes. “Can I finish this chapter?”
I tried not to think about how he’d gotten those fading red scars on his chin and nose, and shifted my attention to his book. “How many pages are left?”
He thumbed through it. “Ten.”
“How about finishing it tomorrow?”
“Okay.” He sighed and slid his bookmark between the pages.
