I slowly stir awake as Kason gently whispers my name. Blinking the fog of sleep away, I slowly push myself up from the couch. Kason sits next to me, and it takes me a moment to collect my bearings.
I look out the windows to see it’s dark outside. “What time is it?”
“Around seven. I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long.”
Stress stains Kason’s face as he stares at the floor, and I’m conflicted over what I should do. It’s clear he’s in need of affection, but I’m not sure I’m the one to be giving it to him.
“Is your mom okay?”
He nods, but his hands are clenched so tightly over the edge of the couch cushion his knuckles are white.
“What happened?”
“She’s just a little sick,” he tells me, but I don’t believe him.
“Kason . . .” When he turns his head to me, I add, “I know we’re not together, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t still care about you. I care about your mom, too. But I know what I saw, and it scared me. I want to know what’s wrong with her.”
He lets go of a tense breath before saying, “She has liver disease. She’s been sick for a long time, and now it’s failing her.” He chokes on the last two words and then clenches his jaw to keep his emotions at bay, but his pain is evident.
“What does that mean?”
“They said they are going to start her on several medications that will give her relief from some of the symptoms so that she won’t feel so sick. But they can’t fix her liver.”
“So . . . I guess I don’t understand what . . . I mean . . .” My words fumble because there’s no easy way to ask what it is I’m trying to.
Kason doesn’t let me falter when he answers my unspoken question. “It means that . . . eventually . . .”
There’s no debating myself when I slip my arms around him. His head falls to my shoulder as every muscle in his arms flex hard as he tries to hold himself together. With fistfuls of my shirt gripped in his hands, he doesn’t need to say another word. I hold him with as much strength as I can, but I find myself cracking too when I think about how hard this must be for him. Kason has no other family aside from his mother, and I can’t stomach the thought of him one day being all alone in this world.
A couple of tears slip down my face and seep into his shirt as we both cling to each other. But in our case, instead of our touches soothing, they only serve as reminders that loss comes in many forms—not just death. It’s heartbreaking as we try to seek comfort from each other, and even though I feel it failing, it doesn’t stop us from trying. So that’s what we do. We hold on to each other with the hope that the sadness will diminish as the minutes tick by, because what other choice do we have?
Eventually, energy drains, and we naturally fall away from each other as our bodies slack in exhaustion from the day’s intensity.
“Come on,” he eventually says as he pushes off the couch. “I’ll take you back to your car.”
Words abandon us on the drive to his apartment. It’s uncomfortable being in his car again after all this time. His scent surrounds me, taking me back to when we were so happy. And now, we’re lonely and broken. But my brokenness is insignificant compared to Kason’s. My heart aches for what he must be going through, and I feel guilty that I’m here, adding to whatever sense of loss he must be feeling.
He parks next to my car, and when I follow him up the stairs to find his door unlocked, I apologize. “Everything happened so fast.”
“It’s okay.”
This time, when I step inside, flashes from this afternoon come rushing back. I can see his mother lying on the kitchen floor.
“Adaline?”
Kason steps up behind me as I look down to where she collapsed. “I didn’t know what to do. I was so scared.”
“I don’t even want to think about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t been here.” He pauses with a questioning expression. “What were you doing here anyway?”
“I’d left a couple things in your room that I wanted to get.”
Defeated, he heads to his bedroom with me trailing behind. I stop at the door. I’m too overcome by the memories this room holds. He goes straight to his dresser where he has my sweatshirt folded next to a couple pairs of my earrings. He doesn’t pick them up, though, rather he braces his hands next to them and hangs his head, and I’ve never felt so confused.
I want to run to him, scream at him, kiss him, slap him.
More than anything, I simply want to go back to when we were good.
I look at his bed, and I can still remember how it felt to be wrapped up in his sheets with my head on his shoulder while he talked so sweetly to me.
“I miss you,” he says before facing me, and suddenly, I’m reminded why we’re no longer together.
My heart can’t take the weight of all this, and I walk away.
“Adaline, wait.”
“You hurt me!” I snap when I turn around to see him following me.
He stops in his tracks, his chest rising and falling with disappointment in his stance. “I never wanted to.”
“But you did.” Tears well up, turning him into an iridescent obscurity. I blink. Tears fall. And he comes back into clarity. “I trusted you.”
“I know you did. I know I fucked up, and I’m so sorry. God, Adaline, I am so sorry.”
“Why did you do it?”
He opens his mouth but fails to speak.
“Just say it. Put me out of my misery and tell me what I did wrong. Because all I can do is go back and forth, picking apart everything I ever did, trying to make sense of it all,” I tell him, my voice trembling with tears on my tongue. “I don’t get it. If the only reason you cheated was for the sex, it doesn’t make sense, because I was ready to give you that. I was ready to give you everything. But for some reason, it wasn’t enough for you.”
“It was,” he responds fervently as he steps toward me.
“Then why? Tell me. Help me understand what I did.”
“You did nothing. I swear to you.” With his brows cinched, his face pains, and his voice cracks. “It’s me.” He turns away, pressing his palms against his eyes, and paces a few times back and forth before muttering, “It’s all me.” He drops to the couch, head in hands. “I’m so lost.”
And he looks like it, too. Like a lost child, desperate for someone to save him, but from what? What is he not telling me?
Warily, I go and sit next to him, and when he lifts his head, tears flood his eyes. My ribs crumble, exposing my heart to the wild elements, no longer protected.
I touch him, hand on knee, and he grabs it quickly. His fingers tense around me. Whatever it is that’s causing him this much anxiety, I wish he’d tell me.
“Kason, please,” I beg. “Just talk to me.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Why is this so hard for you?”
“Because . . .” A tear rips down his face. “There’s something about me . . . and it’s embarrassing . . . and I’m scared to tell you. And as much as I want to keep hiding this from you, you deserve the truth.”
What could he possibly be hiding that he’s this terrified to tell me?
“Kason.” I wrap my other hand around his that’s still holding on to me. “It’s only you and me here. No one else,” I assure. “You can tell me anything.”
“Can I?”
“Like I told you before. Even after you did what you did, I still care about you. Whatever it is you’re scared to tell me, don’t be.”
With uncertainty, he wavers, but I don’t push him as my stomach flips around in worry.
After a long pause, he squeezes my hand a little tighter and finally speaks. “I cheated on you because I thought it would fix me. I never did it to hurt you. I did it because I thought—God this sounds so fucked up—but I thought it would help me not to hurt you.”
His pain-ridden eyes meet mine, and my head shakes in confusion.
“What does that even mean?”
There’s no question how badly he’s struggling, but I’m scared to say anything for fear he’ll shut down, so I wait until he eventually says, “I’ve been dealing with these . . . compulsions.” He stops for a moment, his brows furrowing in discomfort as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I never really thought much of it because I’ve always felt them. I can’t think back to a time when they didn’t exist for me. It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that it started getting worse.”
“What started getting worse?”
His head drops, and he won’t even look at me when he mutters, “My need to umm . . .” He hesitates. “My need to get myself off.”
His words catch me off guard, but I see how uncomfortable he is right now, so I keep my bearings when I ask, “What do you mean when you say that you’ve always dealt with this?”
He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and then sits up with an unparalleled amount of shame in his eyes, which still refuse to turn my way.
“God, I don’t know how to talk about this.”
“I’ve never given you a reason not to trust me,” I say to try to reassure him. Whatever this is, it’s eating him up on the inside, and I want to help him. “Will you look at me?” It takes him a moment, but he does. “There’s nothing you can’t tell me and nothing that you can’t trust me with, okay?”
With a subtle nod, his eyes drift away, and he keeps them downcast when he swallows hard and explains, “I used to touch myself a lot when I was little. It’s been something that has always followed me. And when you found out about Katy, I didn’t know how to tell you that I only used her to satisfy this urge I can’t seem to get rid of without you thinking I was a complete asshole.” I listen to him speak, not knowing how to even react to what he’s revealing. “But that’s exactly what I was.”
And as much as I don’t want to know, I ask anyway. “Is that who you cheated on me with?”
“No.”
“Who was she?”
“Some chick who’s okay with meaningless sex.”
“So, you and her have . . . I mean . . . you’ve been with her before?”
He nods. “She never made me feel guilty.”
I want to be a supportive friend, but we’ve shared too much, and hearing about this side of him rips at the tear he’s already put in my heart. With each word he speaks, the wound grows. And like razors down my cheeks, I cry.
“How many are there?”
“For the past couple of years, just her and Katy.”
“And before them, how many?”
“Only three.”
Oh my god.
I hiccup against a cry that threatens to break free, and he quickly starts to defend himself, saying, “It’s not what you’re thinking. In the moment, it’s like I’m not even inside myself. All I’m after is the release, nothing else.”
“I don’t understand why you cheated, though, because you had me.”
“I did, and you have to know how perfect you were—how perfect you are. And I never pushed you to have sex, because you’re so much more to me than that. But everything got really out of control for me, and I started freaking out when we would be together, and I couldn’t . . .” His words drift, and I can tell he’s uncomfortable with what we both know. There were several times that I would touch him, and he’d push me away because he didn’t want me to feel that he wasn’t hard. I never said anything because I didn’t want to embarrass him, but it embarrassed me more that I couldn’t turn him on.
“Was it because of me? Something I was doing?”
“No, I promise, babe. You’re more than perfect. You’re everything.” He takes a second, and then goes on. “I don’t know why sometimes I’m fine when we’re together and other times I’m not. It’s definitely not because of you; it’s something with me, I just don’t know what. But it killed me to disappoint you when you wanted more and I couldn’t give that to you.” He turns to me on the couch, takes both my hands in his, and looks me straight on. “I never should’ve stormed out on you like I did, and I am so sorry. I tried so hard to be with you that night, and when I couldn’t . . . I felt worthless. I was embarrassed and angry, and I acted like an ass.”
My insecurities from that night are still with me, I cried for hours, blaming myself for not being enough for him. But it still doesn’t make sense, so I ask, “Before me, had that ever happened to you?”
“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.”
“Has it?” I press.
“I don’t want this to hurt you.”
“Tell me.”
His jaw flexes and he shakes his head. “You are the only one that I ever truly wanted, though. The only girl I’ve ever loved. And when I say that it has nothing to do with you, I mean it. This is me. This is my problem.”
“So, is this just sex?”
“Most of the time it’s me getting myself off.”
“Is it a lot?”
“It’s starting to feel like it,” he says as his palms sweat against mine, and I know I shouldn’t pry, but I ask anyway.
“How much?”
He avoids my eyes and fidgets his hands out from mine. “Three . . . maybe five times a day. Sometimes more.”
Oh my god.
I try my best to hide my shock when he tells me this, but the moment he looks at me, he sees it and breaks. “I’m sorry I’m not what you thought I was.”
“Don’t say that,” I respond urgently. “I’m not judging you at all. It’s just . . . this isn’t easy for me. And I know it isn’t for you, either. I just . . . I had no idea you were dealing with all of this while we were together.”
“I know you hate me, and you have every right to, but you need to know that even though I crave this every day, there is nothing I will ever want more than I want you.”
“Then why did you do it?” I ask, as new tears form.
“Because I was desperate to save us. I thought that maybe the fact that it had been so long since I’d had sex was the reason I was struggling to get hard. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I thought it would fix the problem, and then we could be together. I never wanted to disappoint you like I did that night ever again.”
“And what about now? Have you been with anyone since we broke up?”
After a slow blink, he nods, saying, “I never want to lie to you.”
I lose composure in the devastation of his truth, drop my head, and weep quietly into my hands.
I know he wants to be truthful with me, but that doesn’t lessen the brutality of the honesty. Even when he cheated, he could have easily hid it from me, but he didn’t.
And the thing is, he doesn’t owe me anything right now—we’re broken up. I’ve given him no reason to hang on to any hope that we could get back together, so it shouldn’t matter if he’s had sex. We’re both free to do what we want, but for some reason, I don’t want him to be free. Never has it been more clear than right now.
I continue to cry for so many things. For everything he just admitted to me, for walking away from him, for being betrayed, but most of all, for loving him and hating him all at the same time. He wraps me in his arms and holds me as my cries grow louder. It’s then that I feel the staggering heaves of his chest against my face, and I pull back to see he’s crying, too.
The two of us stare into each other’s brokenness, and I swear I can feel him breathing through the holes of my wounds when he begs, “Tell me what I can do. Tell me how to fix this, because I can’t keep pretending that I don’t need you.”
“I’m so confused.”
“Do you still love me?”
And this is what has me so conflicted, because I do still love him. And now, after everything he told me, I’m not even sure how I feel about the cheating. He’s crying and telling me that it was never something he meant to do to hurt me, but only to fix us, and a big part of me believes him.
After all he opened up about, giving me his deep secret, I feel I owe him the same in return when I admit, “Yes. I still love you.”