Sasquatch to the Moon

13: If I Held My Breath, Would You Hold Yours Too?

"Yes!" I snap. "Yes it's about me! You can't fuck me without me being involved, what you do with me is going to leave an emotional dent in me too!"

"That-"

"I'm not gonna let you emotionally wreck me by turning the hell around ten seconds after we finish and telling the first ten people in your phone because I fucking hate being public about anything and you fucking know that. I'd be fine if you told Steph because I get it, he's your best friend and you tell each other everything and that's just how that works but I don't think I could handle it if everyone knew. It's fine if you told him and then were just casual about it around everyone else but you're not a casual guy! You're fucking explosive and really really good with people and really public so it's gonna be common knowledge and I'm me. That's one of the spots where we actually need to talk about shit because I can't do this if you're going to just let anyone and everyone know."

"This is the internalized homophobia thing-"

I cut him off sharply in the middle of the sentence and can't stop myself from yelling. "It's not the fucking homophobia thing it's not the fucking media thing it's not the self hate thing it's my own fucking personal boundaries!" I holler. "You know damn well it would be the same type of response if I was with a girl!"

His shoulders raise up in frustration. "You're just gonna fucking assume that the first thing I'm gonna do is brag about this because I can tell you right now-"

"I know you better than that."

"You haven't even known me for a full year!" He yells back. "You probably don't even know my birthday off the top of your head-"

"August 18th."

"That's not the fucking point." He groans.

"August 18th and I know you like your coffee with cinnamon but it makes you tired and I know that sometimes you have panic attacks when there's a lot going on and when that happens you take a long cold shower and go for a run and I know when you're nervous you wring your hands and I know every single one of the tics you get when you're tired and I know you're allergic to cherries and things that are cherry flavored to a point where it makes your throat swell up and I know that your love language is time and you wish you could draw but you can't because you can't focus on it for long enough and I know you'd rather die than work an office job and I know the only reason that you're in the league right now is because when you were fourteen hockey was the one thing that reminded you of being home and I know that-"

"Okay! Fine! So what you know a lot about me but you still can't assume I'd do that to you."

"You're lying to yourself."

His jaw tics again. "I'm not. You just told me that you'd be uncomfortable if I told people so I won't."

"Rocket."

"So you don't trust me."

"No, I fucking trust you, I just know your personality and that-"

"You don't trust me."

"No I just-"

"You can say it, it's fine."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Fine. I don't. Not past that point. Happy?"

"No, frankly."

"So I don't trust you not to make a spectacle out of it and I don't think you actually want to have sex with me as an act in our relationship but rather as an act of your own personal status and I don't think you see me as a person as much as your pet basket-case and it drives me a little crazy."

He's clearly thrown off by this. "Pet basket case? You're kidding, right?"

"No. I'm not." I respond.

"You wanna explain that or what?"

"We're not arguing about that right now-"

"Well we're arguing and I'd rather have one big fucking argument than two big ones." He throws his hands up.

"Well, fine." I run a hand through my hair in preparation for something I didn't expect to explain today. "Ugh, there's no way I'm gonna get this out right."

"Then try, my feelings are already fucked so just go for it."

"Alright, yeah, fine," I shrug. "So you fucking cling to me like some barnacle all season because your best friend got busy all of a sudden even though I was clearly uncomfortable with how close you were but that's fine. That was good. That helped me. Now you fluctuate between acting like my boyfriend and acting like a fucking therapist and I hate it." I pull in a breath. I'm explaining this badly. "You don't fucking say anything about what you're feeling, ever. It's always everything about me and my own feelings and my own shit and at this point I think you're getting a bit of a power rush over whatever sense of success you got from getting me here in the first place."

"How could you say that-"

"I can because I feel like it's true!" I respond. "I wouldn't have said it if I didn't think that's what's happening! There's a thin line between proud boyfriend and egotistical therapist!"

"I'm not some fucking-"

"Then stop fucking acting like it!" I snap. "Do you care about my feelings or do you like the satisfaction that you've been able to help me out of the stupid rut I was in at the beginning of the season? Do you like me or the idea of me."

He doesn't respond to that. "Go brush your fucking teeth and go to bed, I need a moment."

"Good. Fine." I say. "Go have your little moment but don't bother trying to cuddle up to me when you get back." I spin on my heel and head for the bathroom, absolutely fuming.