21
Evan
I struggle to get through work.
Feels like it’s taking me forever to make lattes, not to mention what a strain it is to maintain a smile as I greet my customers. Reminds me of the days of forcing that grin to get through a photo shoot.
I just keep taking deep breaths as I try to make it through the day.
Days like this are rare since I started taking meds and getting treatment for my depression, but they still pop up from time to time.
I have to push through, I keep reminding myself, but my worry about my regulars and Bradley noticing something’s off only throws me. I keep replaying a piece of advice my therapist told me some time ago: studies show that people aren’t very observant and are more self-conscious about themselves than noticing any slight changes in my behavior.
Despite trying to call those words to mind, I feel transparent, exposed. I’m trying to look happy, but it feels as if everyone can see right through my ruse.
Midway through the day, Frankie texts me: How about a little puppy play tonight? ;)
Frankie’s at some art festival with Cody and Hayden today. I imagine him drinking and laughing with the guys, wanting to enjoy his day off. I know he wouldn’t be bothered knowing I’m having a hard time, but I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, so I just text him: I might have to skip a night of being thrown around in the bedroom like a rag doll…no complaints there, tho. ;) Just tired. Think I’ll call it a night when I get home.
He replies quickly with, K, but if you change your mind, there’s karaoke at Flirt tonight.
I tell him that works, but I know better. With the way I feel, that’s not very likely.
Working my full eight hours takes its toll. By the time I get back to the condo, I’m exhausted, depleted—emotionally more than physically.
It’s not an unfamiliar experience for me. I haven’t had an issue with it in a while, but it used to happen all the time, especially when I was with Peter and still trying to figure out what was wrong with me. In a lot of ways, he benefited from my weakness—by being able to keep me isolated since I didn’t want to go anywhere often. He was able to manipulate and orchestrate things, so I didn’t know any better.
But shitty as he was, at the very least, I was able to get on top of my depression during that time, so I appreciate all that.
Now, it’s something I can manage. I can’t control it, but I can live with it. Some days are just shit. It’s not my fault, and there’s not necessarily a trigger. Hell, considering what’s sparked between Frankie and me and the things we’ve done the past few days since we had that in-fucking-credible fuck session together, I know there’s nothing making me feel this way other than my crazy head.
No, outside of this nagging discomfort, I feel safe…appreciated…cared for. That’s why I know it’s just the depression.
On the plus side, it’s not as bad as it could be. I know how low I can get, and this doesn’t compare. The fact that I was even able to get out of bed speaks volumes.
When I get into my room, I fall down onto my bed. I feel like I could sleep for days.
I lie here until I hear the door to the condo open and then shortly after, a knock at my door.
I don’t want to ruin Frankie’s day or make him feel like he needs to cheer me up. I know how he’ll get, and contrary to my therapist’s words about people not knowing how I feel, that doesn’t apply to Frankie, who can read me better than anyone.
I muster enough strength to get to the door, and when I open it and see his grin and that sparkle in his eyes as he runs his hand down his beanie, it kills me that I can’t be as happy as he is in this moment.
I want to cry, but I keep it together and remind myself—like I’ve been doing all day—that this isn’t me. This is just the depression—a chemical imbalance in my brain.
I can intellectualize that, but it always feels the same…and like crap.
“How’s my pup doing?” he asks. “We’re going to head to see a movie before karaoke if you wanted to—” He stops.
His words are so easygoing, so full of life. They make me wish I could shake out of this state.
The space between his eyebrows creases up as he seems to realize that something’s off. “Ev, everything okay?”
“I’m not really tired, like I said in my text earlier. I’m…”
He doesn’t make me say it. Just moves into my room and hooks his arm around me.
“Come here.” He pulls me over to the bed and sits down beside me. It reminds me of that first night we talked.
He has that warm, sympathetic expression on his face as he takes my hand, massaging his thumb across it.
It relaxes it, makes it easier for me to say, “It’s just hard today.”
“Do you think it’s your meds? Do you think you might need a stronger prescription?”
He’s always been good about talking to me about things like this, and he was there for me when I had to change my prescription twice before.
“No, everything’s been good,” I tell him. “It really doesn’t get as bad as it used to even when it does hit. I think I’m just in my head about it too much because everything’s been going so well. I have this job I love, more friends than I’ve ever had in my life, and this amazing guy—”
“Oh, really? Who’s this amazing guy?” he says, playful jealousy in his tone. “Where’d you meet him, Grindr, Scruff, the bathhouse?”
I snicker. Something I’ve always loved about Frankie is that, even when I get like this, he has a way of breaking through. He can’t make the numbness—this feeling that hits me to my core—totally go away, but he makes it feel a little less overwhelming.
“At Pump one night,” I say, playing along.
“Oh, there’s nothing but trash at that place. You can do better.”
“Even if I could, I’m not sure I’d want to.”
He smirks before sliding his phone out of his pocket and starting to text.
“What are you doing?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“The only movie I’ll be watching tonight is one with my best friend in the fucking world.”
“No, Frankie, seriously. You need to go out and have fun. I don’t want to put you in a bad mood. You know how it is when I get like this. There’s nothing you can do. Please. It’ll make me feel better.”
“Aw, shit. I already sent the text,” he says, acting like he had no control over it. He throws his phone down on the bed beside him. “If you were sick with a cold, then I’d be sticking around making you soup and feeding you Mucinex, and this is no different.”
“So you’re going to make me some soup?” I tease him.
“And get you some Mucinex, apparently,” he says with a chuckle before running his hand through my hair, petting me. He means it just like the way he would have done it in the past, but he runs his hand down the back of my head, to my neck and massages gently…more like something he does for me now that he knows about my newfound love for acting like a pup, particularly with him.
I relax into it, and he moves closer to me before I fall against his chest, appreciating the way he’s massaging me.
“You like that?” he asks. “Does that make you feel better?”
“A little,” I confess.
He kisses my forehead. “Good. Now why don’t we get out some of those CBT worksheets that I’m so good at.”
I laugh before tilting my head up to look into those friendly brown eyes of his.
“I know, I know,” he continues. “It’s not fair. Since I got a big head start on those before you even knew what they were.”
It reminds me of his own experience with depression when he was younger—one of the reasons I guess he’s so amazing at caring for me now when I get like this.
“Come on, Ev. We can save the puppy play for another night and play a different sort of game for a change.”
He winks, and I say, “That’d be nice actually.”
“Good, because I was hardly giving you a choice.” Though I know if I’d pushed, he wouldn’t have forced me to do anything I wasn’t comfortable with. He rises from the bed before leaning down and hooking an arm around me and throwing me over his shoulder.
“Frankie!” I say, laughing.
“Now where are those worksheets at?” he says as he starts searching around my desk. “Not that we don’t have them fucking memorized by now.”
The way he’s acting about all this—like it’s not a big deal, like it’s just this thing we have to do from time to time—takes the shame out of it, makes me feel like it’s less of a big deal than I made it today.
I know that, deep down.
Frankie never makes me feel like it’s more than that.
He carries me into the living room and plops down on the couch, cradling me in his lap as we work our way through some of the exercises we’ve done in the past—ones that make me feel more at ease, that help me understand that this really will get better.
Frankie must notice that I’ve eased up quite a bit, because he says, “Okay, I think that’s enough homework for tonight, don’t you?” He retrieves a Reese’s Piece from his pocket, which he’s been treating me with throughout the exercises—a clever addition, I might add.
He pops it into my mouth, and I enjoy it as he sets the worksheets down on the side table.
“How you feeling?” he asks.
“Much better now.”
“See. You should trust your pup handler with these things.”
He earns another laugh from me, but it doesn’t keep me from feeling like I’m still in the middle of an episode.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling bad?”
“I didn’t want to ruin your day. You were out having a good time with the guys, and your text message sounded so playful and friendly. I figured there was no reason to bring you down.”
“This isn’t bringing me down, Ev. I like being here for you.”
“It just seems like this happens all the time. I know it’s really a day here and there every few months, but when it’s happening, all the good times are a blur and these days seem more real than everything else. And like I just keep bringing you down with me when they happen.”
“It’s just a passing storm, remember? And sometimes we have to find the storm shelter, but not such a bad thing when we’re together, is it? This is how we work. I’m here for you when shit gets hard, and you’re here for me when it gets hard for me…like it did with that fucked-up anniversary with my sperm donor shit.”
That feeling I’ve been carrying around all day, that was improved just by the exercises we worked on together, lets up that much more.
And I also don’t feel like such a waste—like I’m just sucking the life out of him and not offering anything in return.
“Well, when you put it that way, no, not bad at all,” I say.
He runs his thumb down the side of my face. “Ev, you’re such a beautiful person, and even when this happens, I still see that guy who you really are, even when you can’t. Maybe it’s not always perfect, and you can’t bounce around in puppy play every night, but who in this goddamn world has it perfect all the time?”
I curl into him and nuzzle against his chest, appreciating how I’m able to rest in his lap and stay close to him like this.
“Thank you, Frankie. You can go out now, though, if you want. I’ll be fine.”
I feel his fingers on my chin, and he lifts my head so that I’m forced to look into his eyes. “Why would I want to go out when we could be catching up on some delicious Netflix series and ordering even more delicious Chinese food?”
He can’t know how much him saying that means to me.
He moves close to me, offering a kiss.
It’s a warm, gentle kiss, but still has a way of igniting that spark that Frankie has the power of forcing to rise within me when we’re about to work something up in the bedroom.
It can’t take away what I’m feeling, but at least he’s reminded me of what is the most important thing: it’ll pass, and soon, I’ll be back to Pup Runt.
I’m so fucking lucky to have Frankie in my life.
This whole night has reminded me of how important his friendship is. I love the other stuff we’re doing, but as he said, friendship before fucking—because I don’t ever want to lose this. No amount of hot-as-fuck sex, intense and powerful as it is, is worth losing what we share.
Because this…being in his arms, feeling safe next to him, means so much more to me.