“For now, though, I’d be thrilled just to get a chance to do a cake on my own. When I made the cake batter for the wedding we filled in at, even minus the frosting and the actual assembly—that was a huge deal. My parents are intense about cake. I’ve been wanting to do one on my own for a while, but it’s one of those things that needs to be perfect, so they’re hesitant to give up control. But if I’m going to have my own bakery someday, I’ll need to be able to do that without my parents watching me as I measure each ingredient.”
“You’re amazing at what you do,” I tell him, awed not for the first time by the differences between our parents. “They have to see that. And when the bakery happens, I’ll be there for your grand opening.”
“As long as my depression doesn’t get in the way,” he says, each word as heavy as that sledgehammer.
“Is that… something you worry about?” I ask. We’ve already dug deep today. Might as well keep digging.
He scuffs at the floor with his shoe. “All the time.” He says it softly, and the raw honesty in those words shocks me. All the time. Even with my own issues, there are plenty of days I’m not actively concerned about them.
“It’s not that I’m depressed all the time,” he amends. “The therapy and medication have helped so much. It’s just made me wonder if that future I’ve pictured… if it’s something I’m going to eventually fuck up for myself. If I’ll never get to have it for no other reason than my shit brain chemistry.”
“Tarek,” I say, running my hand along his arm. If he doesn’t get his bakery–slash–test kitchen, I’m going to be devastated. “That fucking sucks. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have to feel that way.”
He nods, still not meeting my eyes. “It’s a competitive industry, and college was competitive too. Everyone so full of ambition. That was part of what dragged me down initially, this fear of not being able to keep up. And I was so fucking lonely, even living with Landon. And the rest was just… the way I am.” He turns his attention back to me. “Let’s talk about something else. Or not talk at all,” he says, moving in to kiss me.
I like opened-up, honest Tarek. I hope he doesn’t think he said too much.
When we move apart, his eyes are still closed. “I’m going to ask you something,” he says slowly, his fingers tapping out some unfamiliar rhythm on my back. “No gestures. Just me with you in a rage cage, asking a question. And I might already know the answer, but I’m going to keep wondering if I don’t ask it. So. What if… What if we made this official? You and me?”
The room grows smaller, the air thinner, these borrowed clothes turning stiffer than my most rigid pair of B+B slacks. I like him—I can admit it. That much is clear from the pounding of my heart alone. Last year’s swirly sickness multiplied by a hundred.
But that’s not enough.
“This silence is doing a lot for my ego,” he says with a half laugh.
“I’m sorry,” I rush to say. “I want to keep doing this. Hanging out with you. But…”
“But not as my girlfriend.”
For a moment I allow myself to imagine it, the way Tarek might romance me: dinner dates at Seattle’s best restaurants, moonlit walks, flowers to mark the monthly anniversary of our first kiss. Maybe it’s the oxytocin fucking with me, but in my head, it’s not the worst thing in the world. I might have even wanted to hold his hand when we were in line with Julia and Noelle.
Except romance is like the harp, or how I viewed the harp before I met Maxine: a performance. He’d want something wild and grand, and I’ve spent my life with grand. Grand is exhausting.
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. “I can’t.”
At this, he gets to his feet and puts a few steps between us. “You can see how this might be confusing, right?” His eyebrows are creased, and I have to fight the urge to go over and smooth them out. Iron them with my lips. “You do all these things that make me think you feel the way I do. Then you tell me you don’t want a relationship. And everything we’ve done today—it feels like a date. So I’m just… really fucking mixed up about this.”
He’s not wrong. Sitting here, comforting him the way he comforted me, it feels like he is my boyfriend. The fuzzy boundaries between us have taken a toll on him. I’ve been so focused on making sure I emerge from this unscathed that I haven’t wondered whether any of this might hurt him, too.
I splay out a hand on the bench and stare down at it, then turn it over to see the new calluses forming on my fingers. “I’m sorry I invited you to the show. Maybe I shouldn’t have.” And it kills me to say it, but I add, “We don’t have to do things like this. We can… I don’t know. Keep the boundaries clearer?”
It’s not what I want. I want to be close to him, especially if he’s feeling this way right now, but that’s selfish. I’m the one making him feel this way—I can’t be the one to fix it.
He rakes a hand through his hair, this burst of frustration I haven’t seen from him. It’s not fun, knowing I caused it. “No, no. Forget I said anything. We can keep doing this. All of this.”
“Okay,” I say quietly, wondering why if I’m getting my way, if I’m getting him in all the ways I want, it still feels like we’re both losing.
It’s all I know how to do. He said earlier that
