The Love Hack

Ben

I always knew that I was a little broken.

But I could push it down, pretend it didn't affect me that much. I didn't even really know my mother, I'd say, to minimize the impact.

I'd pretend I wasn't there the night she'd left. That I didn't hear the argument that ensued, that I wasn't called down in the middle of it.

That my Dad hadn't told me that I needed to get my things to go with her. That I hadn't gone upstairs and contemplated over my toys, wondering which ones I'd miss the most.

That I hadn't gone back downstairs, with my bag full of toys packed, to find out she'd already left.

And then I grew up in a town that shamed my mother, the terrible woman who left her family. And I went home to my father, who had wanted to send me away with her that night. If I belonged with someone so terrible, the logical deduction was that I must also be terrible.

But after my Dad died, I couldn't hide the brokenness anymore. It seeped out of me like a wound that refused to stop bleeding, no matter how much I tried to compress it.

And that's the worst part, because at some point, you just have to show someone these jagged, sharp pieces of yourself. Pieces that you wish you could glue back together, or atleast file them down so that no one gets hurt. And they don't have to stay, they don't have to accept it. You can show them the parts of you that you hate, and they can choose to walk away from it.

That was the real reason I didn't date. I tried. I gave people a small glimpse in, cracking the door open a little to show all of my disaster. And either they turned away, or they stayed long enough for me to remember why I kept the door shut in the first place.

And then there was Arty.

The thing about Arty is, he doesn't knock. He just barges in, oblivious to all the signs that say keep out, probably having forgotten his glasses at home. He trips over the mess, makes jokes about the cobwebs, and before I can stop him, he's right there, in the middle of it all, acting like it's nothing. Acting like it's his mess too.

And that's the terrifying part. Because every time he barges in, I want to stop him. I want to put up my hands and say, You don't know what you're getting into. You don't know what's here. But I don't, I just show him another closet that I've stuffed full of hidden things.

Because another part of me—the part that still had hope—wanted him to stay.

Last night didn't help.

The tightness in my chest hadn't left. I was waiting for Arty to wake up, realize that he'd made a mistake, and back out of it.

I could still hear the softness in his voice and feel the warmth of his skin as he pulled me tightly into him.

"Ben," Arty's voice filtered into my head, soft and warm, like the sunlight spilling through the curtains. My eyes blinked open, and there he was, standing over me and smiling. His hand brushed gently through my hair.

"Good morning," he said, as if this was just the normal way in which we woke up every morning. As if I didn't climb into his bed and dump all the shattered pieces of myself in it. His voice had a playful edge that tugged at me, the corners of my mouth instinctively turning upwards.

Arty's hair was messy, still tousled from sleep, and there was a faint wrinkle in his shirt. It wasn't fair how effortlessly attractive he looked, even when disheveled.

"Morning," I mumbled back. I pressed my head into his hand, taking in his intimate touch.

"You looked so peaceful, I didn't want to wake you," Arty said, "but I know you have work."