Finley
Harlyn lays out the events of the day very unemotionally. He stares across the room and takes me through everything that happened, from class to getting to work to successfully avoiding Hannah and Brandon to...well, unsuccessfully avoiding Hannah and Brandon and Mr. Wentworth. When he gets into the meat of it - the flippant homophobia, the light gaslighting - the only shift in his eyes is from blank to tired. It absolutely breaks my heart in two.
As he talks, I lean back against his headboard and bring him with me until we're comfortably slumped against his pillows.
"Oh, and I forgot the best part." The heavy sarcasm in his voice is how I know he's really out of it. He's not even trying to soften it with a smile. "Hannah questioned my ability to be objective as an historian because of my...bisexual-ness."
"Bisexual-ness?" I sputter.
"I'm tired. Leave me alone."
I take a half breath of relief at his slightly lighter tone. But then the rest of the sentence sinks in. And absolute outrage floods through me. "Wait. She said you weren't going to make a good historian because you're bisexual?"
"Yes. Talked about fellow classmates she's had over the years who have pointed out potential queer people or relationships in history. Even if, and I quote, 'it doesn't matter whatsoever to the topic we're discussing.'"
He pushes his forehead farther into my neck and squeezes the arm around my waist. I think about the night I got to Canterbury. That night I felt like I couldn't get close enough, like I wanted to crawl into his skin. He pulled me closer then. He didn't tell me I was crazy or weird. I do the same now, tightening the arm around his shoulders and pressing the hand that's in his hair to his scalp.
"She's wrong, Harlyn," I whisper.
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yeah. I've just never thought that my competence would be linked to my sexuality. I never thought it would be questioned because I like boys." His voice catches a little, the first sign of tears since he woke up. I hold him tighter. "It wasn't even that bad. Some teasing, some questions. No slurs. No threat of firing me. Not that they could but -"
I shift him back a bit so I can find his bloodshot eyes. "Stop. This is what you did last time, remember? You downplayed how bad it was, how much it affected you. It's ok to be angry or upset or confused."
His eyes, still a bit glassy, flit between mine. "I love you, you know."
"I love you, too," I whisper. And I realize it's been too long since I told him that. In all of my trying to be perfect for him - do all the right things, say all the right things - I've ended up avoiding him, avoiding the possibility of slipping up, of disappointing him. And in doing so, I've still disappointed him. "Why didn't you tell me, sweetheart?"
He buries his face in my neck again. "I told you. I didn't want to bother you." The unspoken meaning is there: he didn't think I would come. I think I might cry. Or throw up. "Should've known Mum would call you."
"Well, as I said before, you're not a bother. Ever. Especially for something like this." I return my hand to his curls. "Are you ok if I stay for a bit? We can talk more or watch a movie."
"We didn't have plans to hang out tonight. I don't want to make you feel like you have to be here."
"Harlyn Evans. I don't feel like I have to. You're not an obligation. I want to be here for you."
There's a decades-long pause before he finally says, "Yes, I'd like you to stay."
"Good. I'm going to go make you some tea and grab some food. Your mom said there was some for us when you were feeling up to it." I kiss his forehead. "I won't be long. Will you survive without me for a few minutes?" I mean to lighten the mood, but Harlyn's somber voice takes the wind out of my sails.
"I can't ever survive without you, love."
I slide out from under him, kissing his head once more before hurrying downstairs. I pass Diana in the living room, and she jumps up from the couch to follow me into the kitchen.
"Is he awake?" she whispers, a catch of worry and fear lacing her tone. She starts dishing out stew for us both, studying my face out of the corner of her eye. I wonder what she can see.
"Yeah he is." I fill the kettle with water and put it on the stove to boil. I'm not sure how much Harlyn wants me to tell her, but I can't say everything's fine. It's not. "Remember a few weeks ago when he came out to his coworkers and it...didn't go so well?"
Her entire body slumps. "Yes. Did something else happen?"
"Yeah. They don't normally all work together, so he's been able to avoid being alone with them I think. But today they were all working in the same room. And...it came up. I'll let him fill in the details if he wants to, but it - it was like last time. Not out and out mean or homophobic or anything like that. Just not kind and it really got to him." I keep my eyes trained on the kettle spout. "I don't think that's the only thing. I mean, it's been a stressful few weeks. The stuff going on at work. He's cramming hours in at the library to research. And other schoolwork and..."
"He's been busy that's for sure." Her eyebrows furrow as she adds a spoon to each bowl. "Usually he likes staying busy, though. Keeps his hands and mind occupied."
"We've been through a bit of a rough patch as well," I admit. "I...I probably haven't been as attentive as I should be." That's the understatement of the century.
Diana's head snaps around to stare at me. "Darling, no. No, no. It's not your fault. Don't...don't start with that, alright? Rough patch or no rough patch, he's got a lot on his mind. Work. School. Research. Maybe moving. You." She smiles. "In a good way. He adores you. He just wants to do right by you."
"I know," I whisper. The kettle whistles, and I realize I haven't got any mugs or the tea or cocoa powder out yet. I retrieve Harlyn's mug and the mug he always gives me when I'm over.
"I should've been paying more attention, too," Diana murmurs, handing me a tea bag and the can of hot cocoa mix. "I've just assumed he's been fine being busy, because he normally is. But it's not just busyness, is it? It's...more than that."
I nod slowly. "Yeah, it is. And he's not great at asking for help."
Diana lets out a humorless laugh. "No, he is not." She watches me stir my hot chocolate for a moment. "Which is why I didn't mention this last time. But I think he should really talk to Marty about this. He won't want to, but he really should. Marty might be able to talk to his coworkers about it. Or assign them in different areas of the house. Something."
"Yeah, he won't like that idea."
"I know he won't." Diana picks up the bowls of stew. "I'll follow you up?"
I feel sort of strange leading Diana up the stairs in her house, but it's even stranger when Diana doesn't follow me into Harlyn's room. I take our mugs to the night table, and when I turn to get the bowls, I'm surprised to find that I have to go all the way back to the door.
"Just wanted to give you two some more time," she whispers, in answer to my raised eyebrow. "Call if you need anything else. I'll bring it up."
I set the bowls on Harlyn's dresser so I can pull her into a quick hug. "Thank you." She squeezes me back before retreating down the stairs. Harlyn has turned to the wall, so I'm not sure if he caught any of that exchange. I slide onto the bed behind him and squeeze his shoulder. "Harlyn, sweetheart. Why don't you eat something?"
Harlyn rolls over, nods, and sits up. "I need to apologize to Mum."
"For what?" I ask distractedly, stumbling out of the bed to get the bowls of stew from the dresser.
"I snapped at her when I got home earlier." He looks so incredibly tired and sad and...done.
"I'm sure she'll understand, love," I murmur, handing him his mug of tea. He doesn't take it. "Here." I try to nudge the mug into his hands, but he just stares at me. "What?"
He smiles a small, lovely smile. "You called me 'love.'"
I blink a few times, and it takes me a moment to realize that he's right. "I-I guess I did. Must've picked it up from someone."
His smile grows, and some of the life leaks back into his eyes. The blankness on his face slowly fades as we eat and sip from our mugs and watch Netflix. And while it fades more to exhaustion, my anxiety slowly fades with it. A tired Harlyn I can deal with. He can sleep that off. A blank Harlyn? A detached Harlyn? I don't know how to handle that.
Harlyn drifts off three episodes in and slumps against my shoulder. I nudge him softly until his eyes blink open.
"I should head home, sweetheart."
He shakes his head slowly. "Stay."
I hesitate. But this is what Harlyn wants. So I nod, even though he's already nodded off again. When I've cleared off the bed and coaxed Harlyn into a more comfortable sleeping position, I text Diana to ask if it's ok that I stay and Elly to let her know that I won't be home tonight when Diana replies Of course, darling. And then I lay awake for hours.
The biggest recurring thought is that I didn't do much to help Harlyn. I know he'd say that just being here helped. I'd say the same thing if our roles were reversed. I know logically that there's not much I can do but just be there for him, just as most of the time, there's not much anyone can do about my anxiety except be there. But I still feel like I've failed him. I didn't even mention Diana's idea of talking to Marty. At least that would have been actionable advice, something that might prevent something like this from happening in the future.
But... even the thought of suggesting something like that feels out of line. I clench my fists until my fingernails dig into my palms at that thought. Harlyn isn't a commanding officer waiting for me to mess up so he can yell at me. This fear is ridiculous. And yet it ebbs and flows through my veins every time I think about the fact that Max hasn't called since movie night, or the coldness in Bridget's voice on the phone, or the looks on my parents' faces when I came out to them. It's been years, and I still feel like I keep failing them.
Everyone. Over and over. And in the dark of Harlyn's room, with his head nudged under my chin, the fear is overwhelming, crushing. I'm going to mess up. I'm going to say something or do something wrong. And Harlyn is going to look at me with that blank look on his face. I'll be the one who put it there. He really won't want to move in with us then. He'll leave.
My mind finally shuts down around four in the morning, and I slide out of bed before Harlyn wakes up. I leave him a note and head home to shower and change. I have one morning class, and then I promised to have lunch with Amelia. She learned about emojis - presumably from her best friend Betty - and keeps sending me cryptic messages of just emojis. I'm pretty sure they mean that she misses me and is trying to be subtle about wanting me to come by. Just another person I've failed.
I try to look cheerful - or at least normal - when she opens the door. But it's Amelia. And while I only lived with her for just over three months, she got scarily good at reading my moods.
Her smile falls as soon as she sees me. "Oh, my dear, don't you look a sight. Come in. That rain will chill you right down to your bones."
She steps aside, and I shuffle in and leave my shoes next to the door. "I'm fine, really."
"Finley," she tuts. "That's a gloomy face if I've ever seen one. Here. Hot cocoa for you. Tea for me. Come curl up on my sofa for a bit and talk. We'll make lunch after." I know better than to argue. And judging by the way my eyes sting with tears, this was definitely needed.
I take the offered mug and follow Amelia into the living room. It hasn't changed much. There are piles of books everywhere. An episode of Downton Abbey is paused on the TV. The French doors are flung open, letting the cool November air in. The pattering of rain is soothing, and so is Amelia's little hum when she sits next to me on the couch.
"So, tell me what's wrong, then."
I stir my hot cocoa for a minute, mulling over where to start and what to tell. But I'm tired. I'm tired of holding everything in. I'm tired of not feeling like I can talk to anyone. And Amelia is right here, so far removed from the situation but still loving and invested. So, it all comes out. Well, most of it comes out. I tell her about the incident at Harlyn's work that I was there for, the one that happened yesterday, Harlyn possibly moving in with us, and all the awkward juggling I've been doing to not be overbearing or too opinionated.
She holds her hand up halfway through a mini rant about not overstepping into Harlyn's life. "Hold on. I don't...I don't believe I understand. There's a difference between pressuring and being in a balanced partnership, Finley."
My cheeks burn. "I know that."
"I don't think you do, lovely." She says it so softly and so kindly, I almost start crying again. "Your boyfriend asking your opinion on moving in together is a healthy thing, Finley. And offering suggestions on how to maybe help with homophobia at work? That's good. Helpful even."
"But -"
"No buts." She pins me with a look. "I'm rooting for you two, you know. And that means not letting you screw it up."
My jaw drops. "You sound like Max."
"We may talk occasionally," she says, giving me a coy smile over her mug. "Who do you think taught me about emojis?"
"Betty!" I laugh. "Or maybe your grandkids." I pull my phone out. "I'm texting him. I can't believe this."
Me: You taught Amelia about emojis???
Max texts back almost immediately.
Max: I did indeed.
Me: So, you're the reason I keep getting crazy emoji messages.
Max: You're welcome.
Amelia chuckles when I show her the screen. "He's a good one. Also, you're changing the subject."
"Amelia," I groan.
"Alright." She throws a hand up in surrender. "Alright. Just promise me you'll talk to him, alright?"
I swallow and take a deep breath. "Alright."